Aaané ws 


Bt 


Sap 
— = = iether ga apes 


THE UNIVERSITY. 
OF ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


Return this book on or before the 
Latest Date stamped below. A 
charge is made on ali overdue 
books. 


U. of I. Library 


a 


a 
pa wad 
Fen 
i 


= em SS 


® 


+ 
t; 


A alee wae 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 


BP oh ek 

he a | ae 4 “a ALY 
— “- wal Br ew | = 

. 4 thee Py 


JOAQUIN MILLER 


From a Photograph taken previous to 1890 


The Poetical Works 


of 


Joaquin Miller 


Edited with an Introduction and Notes 
by 


Stuart P. Sherman, Ph.D. 


Professor of English in the University of Illinois 


G.P.Putnam’s Sons 
New York & London 
The Rnickerbocker Press 
1923 


Copyright, 1923 
by 
Abbie Leland Miller 


PREFACE 


THE justification of this edition, undertaken with the ap- 
proval of Mrs. Miller, is that for the first time it exhibits the full 
range of Joaquin Miller’s poetical works in a single volume. 

The Bear edition in six volumes, which he had prepared in his 
later years, must be regarded as an interesting but somewhat 
chaotic personal repository rather than as a definitive popular 
edition. Following his text and his general plan, yet with numer- 
ous rearrangements and additions, I have reprinted here all 
poems which he gathered into that storehouse; but in the inte: 
of condensation and coherence have omitted his shreq 
memoirs, his four plays in prose, his essays and his sheaf of p 
notices, and have greatly abridged his copious running comme. 
tary. In compensation I have added more than fifty poems whi 

he discarded or overlooked but which are either of intrinsic men 
or of value to the student of his development. The whole of the — 
rare Portland volume, Joaquin, Et Al.,is reprinted from the orig- 

inal text, except ‘‘Joaquin’”’ and ‘Benoni,’ which Miller had 

‘revised and incorporated in Songs of the Sierras. The “Fallen 

' Leaves’’ series is restored from the American edition of Songs of the 

Sun-Lands, 1873, except in the case of ‘‘Thomas of Tigre,” 
“Yosemite,’’ and ‘‘Dead in the Sierras,’’ where the text of the 

Bear edition is followed. The other principal additions are the 

*series from Shadows of Shasta and from The Building of the City 

Beautiful; and ‘‘Light of the Southern Cross,” printed from a 
pamphlet supplied by Mrs. Miller, to whom and to her daughter 
Juanita I am indebted for various information contained inthe 

“Introducti on. 


ele: 


tray. si 4 awe lic. « MAY I Pon ei ha 
p f Sir 4 \ ’ 5 : ) 
J par) \Y y ey 
f peng i : Ce i 
; X 3 
f f eI 
’ \4 y 
; ‘ h \ 
i 
i 
] 


CONTENTS 


MNT RODIDOCTION oF 0) 5) Re te Ee 
WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME) 410, Gaia Ge iu ee! eo 
PROM JOAQUIN, Er Ax, 18694 00.0) 2 a a 


Ts ecWorta’ Ware?) 0 tn lay ; 
ZANARA : : ; ; ; : : ‘ ‘ 4a 
In EXE . ; : : ra Rua, a KS ag. : 
-To THE Barps oF S. F. Bay d Ree A, 3 : : A 50 
MERINDA . ; ; : : : : d Siete i 
NEPENTHE . ; na nee f t i ; ; Si SKN 
UNDER THE OAKS ; ; ‘ 4 \ 5 : ai SA 
DIRGE _.. ‘ 4 : : : : * ‘ Bry 
VALE .. : ‘ ; : P : : ‘ ; -- S55 Y 
ULTIME : Peis : ; : ; : ‘ PO. 
SONGS OF THE SIERRAS, 1871 Oh rice Gran hind ation 
Bi RPANER IO My Vt) 5 RM RRs A a OE 
SAV ALKER IN NICARAGUA (0 Jy Oh icin aa ee, Ge 
THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE ‘ Poe. Fi 8s 
b THE ARIZONIAN } : : a: 4 : ; é m 
———<)\YTue Last Tascuastas U7 . Oe ‘ BS ae aN 
Joaouin MuvRIETTA.. ; : ieee ‘ , I : hy. 
Bits From Ina, A Drama . ; : he LN ae / 726-) Ae 
Be Oe ES Ss emma OR SNR MEG Le tate 
Myrru , RGR a ° ; ; : , y 143 m', 
Sarson’s RIDE eee Me RR I Ae SS leo 


Vv 


vi Contents 


PAGE 
FALLEN LEAVES, 1873 : : . A , ; > Re 2 8 
PaLM LEAVES ; : : : ‘ : . : . 155 
THOMAS OF TIGRE : ; : : - : ‘ ees 
YOSEMITE . : : ; , ; : F : wens 
DEAD IN THE/SIERRAS . : : : : 5 ; . 156 
IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA : " : ° . : - 156 
Wuo SHALL Say? : : : ‘ . : " see 7 
A LovE SONG : ‘ : : - . . : Ph try 
IN SAN FRANCISCO ; ; - . . ° Z . 158 
SHADOWS OF SHASTA . : F eRe Sa ° . . 158 
AT SEA : : E : : : ° . : » %I59. 
A Memory OF SANTA BARBARA . ° . ° : . 159 
SUMMER FROSTS . : : : : . . ° SRE (6.9) 
SIERRAS ADIOS. : : ; A ; 5 : 2, £00 


BY THE SUN-DOWN SEAS, 1873 : ° . . ° Maes 1c! 


OyvE-AGUA: OREGON . ; : ° : ° af LOS 
_SIERRA~GRANDE—~DEL NORTE : , . . . 165 
é EXODUS FOR OREGON) : : : . : ‘ : Se Ot 
°THE~HEROES-OF OREGON. A : é A i ven t68 
es ROLLS THE OREGON ; ‘. : : ° oa. 170 
—, in 
Perm PICTURE OF A Buuiy~” . |. , : : : j Mh 172 teee 
VAQUERO. : : : : ° . . . 172 
THE GREAT EMRRALD LAND a Bd inc : . ae. 73 
To Rest at Last : : : : ee : - - ‘75 
KSONGS OF THE’SUN-LANDS .°  % 4-, \/:j0ege anh 
ISLES OF THE AMAZONS, j A ; : : : 179 
AN INDIAN SUMMER, d : ° . . ° 209 
From SEA TO SEA, ‘ : : 4 : 2 : aap 2l3 
THE SHIP IN THE DESERT, . * i s \ 3 {e216 
a THE SEA OF Fire, Ww . * e . , ~ 245 * 
A Sonc Or THE SouTH, , G sas da : ; . 263 
Dawn aT SAN DiEco, ; i ; Q7 


\ 


ae Le 
Contents vii 


PAGE 

NGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN (OLIVE LEAVES) , 209 
O Boy AT PEACE : : ; ; ‘ ; ’ KOE 
At BETHLEHEM, « ; ; ; ; : 5 5 yi B03 
TA NOTE’ : A < : : : : é . 303 
IN PALESTINE, ] ; ; : ‘ : 3 ; +304) 
BEYOND JORDAN, : ; : ; : : i ye sOA 
FAITH, F ; : : : ; : ‘ : aoOS 
Hore,, : ; ; : : . e , ; PAckOS 
CHARITY, . ! ; 3 ; : f . 306 
THE LAST SUPPER, f , ‘ : d ‘ ‘ ew sy! 
AlSONG FOR, PEACE, 9.) Spx) >t) renee ce dee 308 
To RUSSIA . A ; : 5 : : ‘ , 9 OD 
To RACHEL IN RUSSIA : : : 4 % 5 - 309 
SONGS OF ITALY, 1878 — . 5 : ; ‘ ; : a Gee 
THE IDEAL AND THE REAL . : : . : A nga 
A Dove or St. Mark Ete 2? AER Nee PO Sake os: 
COMO 8, bo ; : . : . . 3 1 4330 
SUNRISE IN VENICE . : ? > . * ° 4 332 
VALE! AMERICA : : ‘ . . . - ir ot 335 
eee a Ge pn heh semnlaames ash ag Th 9 Pe 4339 
ATTILA’S THRONE, TORCELLO “ ’ 0 ° 3 rs 339 
VENICE |. A ; 5 . . ° : ju aal 
A HamsTORM IN VENICE : . 2 . » . « 342 
SANTA Maria: TORCELLO  . y ° ‘ A ale © 343 
In A GONDOLA . : ; ° . > » e «344 
Tug CAPuUCIN OF ROME : . . ° ° Py » 345 
FROM SHADOWS OF SHASTA, 1881 : * ’ - 2 BAT 
Mount SHASTA . d . . ’ ‘ . 349 
A LAND Taat Man Has Neaie TROD Hera ; «14 349 
THE MOuUNTAINS , M ; : r : ; on. RAG 
“For THE RIGHT . : : : : ; : ‘ . 350 


BN 


ya Contents 


O, THE MOCKERY OF Pity . : : ; 
O Tranoui Moon. ; Lb aaRe : 


LOG CABIN LINES . : : ; : f 


THE SOLDIER’s HoME, WASHINGTON .. 

OLIVE . ; ; ; : 4 : , 

THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH ‘ 

THe Lost REGIMENT . i , ; ‘ 

| .. Newport News. |. : A ; ‘ 

‘THE CoMING OF SPRING : , : : 

Summer Moons at Mount VERNON . : 

Pal THE PorM BY THE PoToMAc : . 

ss WASHINGTON BY THE DELAWARE . : : 

4 Tue Bravest Battie “ine cau ama os 
tate 


ae 


HE ULTIMATE WEST '. °°. : . ; 


er 


To JUANITA F ‘. ‘ : : 
CALIFORNIA’s RESURRECTION. ‘ 5 : 
PLEASANT TO THE SIGHT : 2 ‘ ‘. 
THE TREES. ; : : : ; : 
A Harp Row For Stumps . ; : : 


‘“.. THE GoLp THat GREW BY SHASTA TOWN . 
“tran 10UX CHIEF’S ER ™, ; p 


A SHASTA TALE OF LOVE. ; PUR 
LOVE IN THE SIERRAS . : : : : 
OLD GiB AT CASTLE Rocks . LOSE , 
COMANCHE . ‘ , 5 : ‘ . 
MONTARA F ‘ Py oa ; 
THE LARGER COLLEGE ; ". é A 
TO THE PIONEERS ; : : : 
a tik ROSE : é ie ee 


SAn DIEGO . oh Cees 


PIONEERS TO THE GREAT EMERALD 
ALASKA 


Contents 


ene Nes AMERICAN OcEAN €-—~ ip Some P 


WILIGHT AT THE HIGHTS 


ARBOR Day é d 
CALIFORNIA’S Cup OF GOLD . 
By THE BALBOA SEAS . 
Macnoita Biossoms 
CALIFORNIA’S CHRISTMAS 
“THE MEN OF Forry-NINE_ 
CUSTER... eT te. ; ; 
<THE eae OF AMERICA ee 
“THE FOURTH’, IN OREGON . 
An ANSWER ; 


FROM THE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL, 1893 


FEED My SHEE 

UNDER THE SYRIAN STARS 

THE GROWING OF A SOUL 

How BEAUTIFUL ARE THE FEET 

THE SERMON ON | ‘tHE Mount 

IN THE SWEAT OF ‘Tuy Face 

THE Curist IN EGyPt : 
AWAITING THE RESURRECTION AT inhan 
THE VOICE oF ToIL 

THE FOUNDATION STONES 

THE First Law or Gop 

Lo! ON THE PLAINS OF BETHEL 

How SHALL MAN SuRELY SAVE His SOUL 
UNDER THE OLIVE TREES ‘ 
From Out athe Doors oF DAWN 
THE SuN Lay MOLTEN IN THE SEA 


THE Day Sat gy WitH BANNER FURLED 
THE Tom or Gop 
THE BLESSED BEES 


HE WALKED a Wor.Lp WiTtH BENDED HEAD 


Contents 
Man’s Books : é _ Mae 
WPan TRULY BRAVE)... jue 0° 8 Pah Abe ee fae , hdd 


Wuat Ir WE ALL Lay DEAD BELow . i F ; . 404 
Put Up Tuy Sworp . 4 : ; ; ; y 2 A405 
Wuy, Know You Nor Sout Speaks To Sout 4 ; ~ 405 
THE VoIcE OF THE DovE . : : Yer'Aos5 


BCT TISHUTIEMES ou 8 SOR ee 


ENGLAND . : : ° . rie : : - 409 
‘Sr, Paut's’. : : : ; : : , ; - 409 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY . : : : ; : : . Ato 
Ou, FOR ENGLAND’s OLD TIME THUNDER! . : , » 40 


At Lorp Byron’s TOMB. A é é , , . 410 
DEAD IN THE LONG, STRONG GRASS. : ‘ 4 SPS 863 
{HE PAssING OF TENNYSON : ; ‘ ‘ ‘ 412 48 
RIEL, THE REBEL 5 : : : : ‘ Teena lS 


MoTHER EGypT . : j ‘ : 4 : j yor LS 
AFRICA ; ‘ ; : : - ‘ shea . 414 
BosTON TO THE BOERS : Fv re é # ; ss 41508 


MORE SONGS FROM THE HIGHTS pioeoe CARRY, ae 


THE PorT . ; ; : : ’ Fo MM 
-Anp On, THE Voices I HAvE HEarD . ‘ i : ie AtO ‘ | 
Tue Wor.p Is A BETTER WoRLD ; ; ; ; Aatoo ' 
THE ForTUNATE ISLES ‘ ; : : : GAY ey. oe | 
To SAVE A SOUL eo aan 5 : : . - 420° 
Tue LicHT OF CuRIsT’s FACE. : : SHY) Work eae 
Goop Buppna Sar ‘Be CLEAN, BE CLEAN”  . og Fitoe e 

_ TRUE GREATNESS . . . eRMIN 0 NG. TET eee 
ON THE FrRinG*TANg 8) ° 00.570 5) HS Sees . 4229 
Morsers oF MEN ; ‘ ; , ‘ ; ; . 423 8 
-AFTER THE BATTLE . - . Y j é } | ‘4 


Our HEROES OF -To-DAY 5 , : : ‘ 
BK SS 


\ 
\ i 


] 


ie 
9 ee eneee 


Contents 


A DEAD CARPENTER 
QUESTION? 


For THOSE WHO FAIL 

THE RIVER OF REST 

DEATH Is DELIGHTFUL 

THE SONG OF THE SILENCE . 
TOMORROW . 

FINALE 


MISCELLANEOUS LINES... 
Tur Missourt 
“’ “Down THE Mississrppr at NIGHT 
By THE LOWER MississipPt ‘ 
HER PICTURE ; : 
CHRISTMAS BY THE GREAT RIVER 
‘ He Loves AND RIDES AWAY 
THE QUEEN OF My DREAMS 
THOSE PERILOUS SPANISH EYES 
MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC 
THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO 
A NUuBIAN FACE ON THE NILE 
) PETER COOPER 
THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE 
GARFIELD 
To ANDREW CARNEGIE 
LINCOLN PARK 
Rusurdo SAN FRANCISCO 
CuBA LIBRE 
THE DEAD Czar . 
THE LITTLE BROWN MAN 
CHILKOOT Pass A ‘ 
THE FourTH IN HAWAIIAN WATERS 
LIGHT OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS 


Don’t STOP AT THE STATION DESPAIR . 


xii Contents 


SEMI-HUMOROUS SONGS . 
In CLassic SHADES : : 
THAT GENTLE MAN From BOSTON 
WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON 
HoraAcE GREELEY’S DRIVE 
THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO . 
SARATOGA AND THE PSALMIST 
A TurKEY Hunt IN TEXAS. 
USLAND 
THAT USSIAN OF Wake 
SAYS PLATO 


' WELCOME TO THE GREAT Ce OCEAN . 


Two WISE OLD MEN oF OMAR’S LAND. 


Wey SONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS 
— ee Ol 
* COLUMBUS 
“A Sonc OF CREATION . 
Wits LovE To You AND YOURS . 


mo J ADIOS yy : 
eres aiige «i hae ae 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES . F ° 
INDEX OF TITLES . : ° . 


PAGE 


INTRODUCTION 


JoaguIn MILLER was a picturesque figure on the American 
scene for more than forty years. The romantic life which he had 
conceived and which he had, in considerable measure, enacted, 
he recorded in both verse and prose, with due regard for the at- 
tention of posterity. Though much of his poetry is a genuine 
conquest, he wrote too easily and he wrote too much. In the 
summer of 1921, only eight years after his death, though occa- 
sional curious pilgrims visited his home on The Hights above 
San Francisco Bay, and carried off a stone from his monument 
‘to Moses The Law-Giver, booksellers of a dozen shops in the 
cities that fringe the bay looked up with surprise when one en- 
‘quired for a copy of his works, and replied that they had none. 
It is not strange that popular interest refuses to float a six-volume 
edition of Miller. But our literature is not so rich in distinctive 
national types that we can afford to let this poetical pioneer 
fade, as he is now in danger of fading, into a colorless shadow like 
the once famous scouts who accompanied Frémont into the West. 

He is, to be sure, difficult to fix for an adequate portrait, be- 
cause in his time he played several parts; and he himself was never 
quite sure in which of his various costumes and poses he would 
most adorn the national gallery. An emigrant from the Middle 
Border, a gold-hunter of the Far West, an Indian fighter, a fron- 
tier judge, he first rose above the horizon, in 1871, with assist- 
ance and cheers from England, as the long-haired top-booted 
“poet of the Sierras.’’ Even at the outset of his career, he was not 
quite satisfied with that réle. His own early aspiration was rather 

to be known as ‘‘the American Byron’”’; and, in keeping with that 


3 


4. Introduction 


high calling, he shook off the dust of his native land, wandered 
for a time in “‘exile,” and bore through Italy and the Aigean 
Isles the pageant of his bleeding heart. Following his personal 
contact with the Pre-Raphaelites in London, this impressionable 
mountaineer discipled himself for a brief period in the early 
seventies to Swinburne and the Rossettis, was intensely “eesthe- 
tic,” and contemplated devoting himself to the Orient. Return- 
ing to America about 1875, he made through his middle years 
numerous ventures in prose fiction and drama, ranging all the 
way from the Forty-Niners and the Indians of the Pacific slope 
to fast life in New York and to the more or less autobiographical 
affairs of the artist Alphonso Murietta in Italy (The One Fair 
Woman). In what we may call his final period, after his return to 
California in the middle eighties, there grew strong in him a sense. 
that he was the leader of a native poetical movement, a spiritual 
seer with Messianic or at least prophetic mission; and in the flow- 3 
ing hair and beard of his last years, stalking majestically under 
the trees which he had planted by his monuments on The Hights, 
and gazing dreamily out over the Pacific, he looked the part. ] 
Now, whatever one may think of Miller’s actual contribution | 
to poetry or to prose fiction, this evolution of an Indian fighter 
into the Moses of the Golden Gate is an extraordinary phe- 
nomenon. Considered merely as a detached individual, he 
is abundantly interesting to the biographer. But he repays 
sympathetic curiosity most generously perhaps ‘when one re- q 
gards and studies him as a register of the power exerted 
upon the individual by the American environment and the na- 
tional culture, even at their thinnest and crudest. To study him : 
in this fashion the first requisite is a more coherent account of his | 
career than has been hitherto available. Joaquin Miller was his | 
own principal hero, but by a singular fatality his adventures have | 
never been adequately written. Certain scenes and events he _ 
himself sketched repeatedly; but concerning many passages of his | 
history he was extremely reticent. What is more serious, he had. : 


Sntroduction 5 


no steady narrative power. Lifelong an adventurous rover, in 
love with action, he finds it next to impossible to stick to the 
thread of his story. As soon as he grasps the pen, he overflows 
with sentiment and moralization and he riots in description. 
Consequently his longer poems frequently produce the effect of 
panorama; and the feeling which they present remains obscure 
till the shifting pictures are connected and explained by the 
events of his own life. 

To the student of American culture, the case of Joaquin 
Miller is the more valuable from the fact that he did not—like 
Bret Harte, for example—put on the frontier as a literary gar- 
ment, after an eastern upbringing. By birth and ancestry he 
belonged in the great migration which settled the Middle Border 
and the Far West. He was born in_1841, in a covered wagon, 
“at or about the time it crossed the line dividing Indiana from 
Ohio.’’ His mother, Margaret Witt of Dutch stock from North 
Carolina, and his father, Hulings Miller of Scotch stock from 
Kentucky, were married in Indiana; and after some oscillation 
between Indiana and Ohio, gravitated slowly westward for a 
decade through the Miami Reservation and up along the banks 
of the Wabash and the Tippecanoe rivers, before they heard a 
clear call to follow the overland trail to the coast. Meanwhile 
they made various cabin homes for their young family. The 
mother cooked and sewed and woveandspun. The father worked 
his little clearings, failed as storekeeper, served as magistrate, 
and kept school for the children of the wilderness. It was a 
rough life, but every reference of Miller to his childhood indicates 
that it was in many respects a good and a happy life; and every 
reference to his parents is marked by a tenderness without con- 
descension. These simple people were impecunious, restless, 
-and not very shrewd—rather sentimental and visionary. But 
they were honest and pious, with the pacificism of the Quaker 
discipline and the abolitionism of Horace Greeley; they were loyal 
to one another and gentle and affectionate in all the family re- 


Ore Introduction 


lationships; they were kindly in their intercourse with the In- 
dians of the Reservation; and they were hospitable with their 
meagre shelter to wanderers less fortunately circumstanced. 


Most of the parents’ traits ultimately reappeared in the son, from 


their hospitality to their turn for roving. 


The migratory influences from his immediate family were 


réenforced by the spirit of the age. The Millers were not alone 


in finding it difficult to “settle down” in the eighteen-forties. 
It was an expansive and exploratory epoch in both the physical. 


and the intellectual senses. The East was in a philosophical and 


social ferment. Descendants of the Puritans, corporally resident 
in Concord, were extending their mental frontiers to Greece and 
India; and in 1841 Emerson published the first series of his Essays, 


“striking up” for a new world. It is not clear that ‘hese expan- i 
sive utterances promptly reached the Indiana settlement. But 


between 1842 and 1844 Frémont started a movement which was 


the material complement of Transcendentalism by his series of d 


bold expeditions to the Rocky Mountains, Oregon, and Cali- ; 
fornia. Frémont’s account of these explorations Hulings Miller 


borrowed from an Indian agent and read in the evenings to his _ 
assembled family. ‘I was never so fascinated,” says Joaquin, “I 
never grew so fast in my life. Every scene and circumstance in j 
the narrative was painted in my mind to last, and to last forever.” : 
The hide of the “woolly white horse” celebrated in Frémont’s | 
presidential campaign is exhibited to this day in Miller’s home in — 


California; and it may be mentioned here that Frémont’s guide, : 
the hunter and Indian fighter Kit Carson, is the hero of one of © 


Miller’s most readable poems. In 1845 Texas was admitted to 


the Union, and Sam Houston, another of the poet’s western he- _ 
Toes, was elected to the United States Senate. At about this time: 
the Mormons, whom he was to commemorate in The Danites, 


were drifting westward through Illinois and Missouri; and in 


1847 Brigham Young led the faithful into the valley of the Great — 
Salt Lake. In 1849 the cry, “Gold is discovered in California,’’ 


a eS 


Introduction 7 


ran like prairie fire among our middle-borderers, and doubled 

the attraction of the full section of land offered to each settler in 

Oregon, in a bill introduced by Senator Linn of Missouri. By 
1850 still another of Miller’s heroes, the enigmatic William 

Walker, was in California, soon to be preparing his filibustering 
excursions into Mexico and Nicaragua. To add the last attrac- 
tion General Joe Lane, once a pupil of Hulings Miller, in the 
sugar camps of Indiana, had been appointed governor of 
Oregon. 

The multiplied appeals of the Far West had become irresist- 
ible. As soon as they could equip themselves for the journey, 
three years after the discovery of gold, the Millers started fo: the 
promised land. With a presentiment on his father’s part that it 
would some day be a pleasure to go over the record, Joaquin, 
then in his eleventh year, kept a journal of ‘he great expedition. 
Though this unfortunately was lost, the poetic residuum of his 
impressions is preserved in ‘‘ Exodus for Oregon” and ‘‘The Ship 
in the Desert.’ As he recalled their adventure many years later, 
they set out in wagons on the seventeenth of March, 1852; in 
May, they crossed the Missouri above St. Joe, where they found 
the banks for miles crowded with tents of the emigrants; followed 
the Platte River; threaded Frémont’s South Pass over the 
Rockies; rested at Salt Lake City; skirmished with the Indians 
in the desert; descended to the head waters of the Snake River; 
‘crossed the Cascade Mountains at the Dalles; and, after seven 
months and five days, ended their march of three thousand miles 
in Oregon, near the middle of the Willamette Valley, ‘‘the most 
poetic, gorgeous and glorious valley in flowers and snow-covered 
mountains on the globe.’”’ Miller’s enthusiasm for the scenery of 

Oregon is only equalled by his enthusiasm for the new settlers: 
“The vast multitude,” he declares, that fought their way across 
the plains in the face of cholera, hostile Indians, famine, and drouth 
“was, asa rule, religious, and buried their dead with hymns and 
prayers, all along the dreary half year’s journey on which no 


8 Introduction 


coward ever ventured, and where the weak fell by the wayside, 
leaving a natural selection of good and great people, both in 
soul and body.” 

It was about two years after the establishment of the Millers 
in Oregon that Joaquin’s independent adventures began. They 
had cultivated a little land, bought a few cows and sheep and 


hens, and were running a tavern in a small way. The father and 
elder brother were now absent, teaching school, and Joaquin and 


his younger brother Jimmy were left with their mother to look 
after the place. Stories brought up from the mining camps of 
California by pedlars and itinerant preachers had for some time 


been making him restless; and it had been conceded, he says, 
that he was ultimately to be allowed to seek his fortune in the 


wicked and dangerous territory to the southward. In his four- 


teenth year, anticipating the parental consent, he ran away, and 
joining a party of miners who were opening a placer claim in a 
wooded gulch by the Klamath River, just below the border be- 4 
tween Oregon and California, he offered his services as cook and — 
dishwasher. Here began his intimate acquaintance with the i 


tougher and more miscellaneous element of the western popula- — 


tion which was streaming through the Golden Gate—the Austral-_ 


ians, the European adventurers, the Mexicans, the Chinese, and i 
wanderers from eastern cities. And here, if his memory is to be | 
trusted, he wrote his first song, in celebration of an adjutant — 


cook’s marriage to a woman from Australia. 


Joaquin was at this time small for his age, slender, pale, 


frail-looking, with hair of the color of ‘ hammered gold,”’ reaching — 
to his shoulders. The camp diet of bacon and beans did not agree _ 
with him, and his first mining experience was terminated by a@ 


serious attack of scurvy. He was nursed back to health in Yreka 
by Dr. Ream and a ‘‘kind little Chinaman’’; and then was taken ‘ 
by a mysterious stranger to ano‘her camp for the winter by the — 


forks of several little streams which flow into the Klamath River 


from the north of Mt. Shasta. “ Here,”’ he says, ‘“‘I laid the scene 


Introduction 9 


of ‘The Danites,’ my famous play, but have always been sorry I 
printed it, as it is unfair to the Mormons and the Chinese.” The 
tall stranger with whom he spent the winter is another of Miller’s 
‘heroes, whom at this period he seems to have regarded with un- 
qualified adoration. He figures so largely and mysteriously in 
his work that he requires identification. In the introduction to 
the collected poems he is described merely as ‘‘the Prince,’ and 
is said to have gone ‘“‘south,” in the spring of 1855. But in Life 
Among the Modocs, 1873, he is represented as a very handsome 
and romantic professional gambler of great courage and chival- 
‘rous nature who was generally understood to be a prince, but 
who, after fighting with Walker in Nicaragua, acknowledged 
“himself to be only plain James Thompson, an American. In 1876, 
Miller dedicated his First Fam’lies of the Sierras as follows: 
“To my old companion in arms, Prince Jamie Tomas, of Leon, 
Nicaragua.” But that this ‘‘ Prince Jamie Tomas’’ was the James 
Thompson of Life Among the Modocs and the mysterious stranger 
of the autobiographical sketch is made clear at last by a footnote 
to the poem called ‘‘ Thomas of Tigre,”’ in the fourth volume of 
the Bear edition. 

After the departure of ‘“‘the Prince,” the most influential 
friend of the strange boyhood days on Mt. Shasta was another 
rather mysterious figure, Joseph De Bloney, whom Miller had 
met in the spring of 1855. Inan apparently serious sketch of him, 
included in Memorie And Rime, De Bloney is described as “a 
California John Brown in a small way.” According to this ac- 
count, he was of an old and noble Swiss family, and had probably 
crossed the plains with Frémont under an impulse similar to that 
which animated Brigham Young in Utah and Walker in Nicara- 
gua—an impulse to found a new state. ‘His ambition was to 
_ unite the Indians about the base of Mount Shasta and establish 
a sor. of Indian republic, the prime and principal object of which 
was to set these Indians entirely apart from the approach of the 
white man, draw an impassable line, in fact, behind which the 


10 Sntroduction 


Indian would be ecure in his lands, his simple life, his integrity, 
and his purity. . . . It wasa hard undertaking at best, peril- 
ous, almost as much as a man’s life was worth to befriend an 
Indian in those stormy days on the border, when every gold- 
hunter . . . counted it his privilege, to shoot an Indian on sight. 
An Indian sympathizer was more hated in those days, is still, 
than ever was an abolitionist... . De Bloney gradually 
gathered about twenty-five men around him in the mountains, 
took up homes, situated his men around him, planted, dug gold, 
did what he could to civilize the people and subdue the savages. 
But he had tough elements to deal with. The most Sav- 
age men were the white men. The Indians, the friendly ones, were 
the tamest of his people. These white men would come and go; 
now they would marry the Indian women and now join a pros- 
pecting party and disappear for months, even years. At one 
time they nearly all went off to join Walker in Nicaragua.’’ 
Under the influence of this odd character, young Joaquin seems 
for the time to have forgotten the Oregon homestead, and to have 
embraced the dream of a little Indian republic on Mt. Shasta. 
Between 1855 and 1859 he represents himself as living in the 
shadow of the mountains with De Bloney and the Indians and 
“Indian Joe,” a scout and horsetrader of German birth, who had 
been with Frémont, and who furnished Miller some of the materials — 
for his poems. He was also on intimate terms with the Indian > 
chief Blackbeard, who, he remarks in Memorie And Rime, had 
“a very beautiful daughter,” and gave him a “beautiful little 
valley,’’ where he built a cabin, and “‘first began to~write.”. ; 
According to Life Among the M. odocs, a romance witha biographi-— 
cal core, he married the chief’s daughter and became eventually — 
the leader in the movement to unite the tribes in an Indian re- 4 
public. These stories of his Indian bride and of his fighting de- | 
fiance of the white men seem rather more plausible when one © 
forgets that he was but fourteen when he remarked the beauty _ 
of the girl and only seventeen when he assumed the responsibilities ‘ 


Introduction 11 


for which, according to M. emorie And Rime, De Bloney’s growing 
inebriety disqualified him. | 

_ Viewed from within by a romantic poet, this colony of ad- 
‘yventurers and Indians was a noble enterprise for the preservation 
‘of an oppressed race; viewed from without it probably seemed 
‘more like a nest of horse-thieves. Its importance for Miller was 
‘partly in its development of his romantic sympathy with the 
‘outlaw. Ina paper on ‘‘How I Came to be a Writer of Books,”’ 
‘contributed to Lippincotis in 1886, he illustrates this point, and, 
at the same time, explains the origin of his pen-name " Joaquin.”’ 
His parents had called him Cincinnatus Heine (or Hiner); but, 
during his sojourn on Mt. Shasta, his friends had already begun 
to call him by his now familiar name. According to this account, 
he had made several trips with Mexican horse and mule drivers 
down into Arizona and northern Mexico, and on these expedi- 
tions, ‘‘These Mexicans were most kind to me.” They, on the 
contrary, were treated by the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of Cali- 
fornia with a brutality which was ‘“‘monstrous.” “It was this,”’ 
says Miller ‘‘that had driven Joaquin Murietta, while yet a 
youth, to become the most terrible and bloody outlaw our land 
has ever known. A reward of many thousands had been offered 
for hi; head, he had been captured, killed, and his head was in 
spirits and on exhibition in San Francisco, when I took up my pen 
for the first time and wrote a public letter in defence of the Mexi- » 
cans.” In consequence of this letter he was bante:ingly identified 
‘by a Sacramento paper with ihe bandit. His friends continued 
the banter. The name was revived when he returned to Oregon, 
and was employed to twit him when he became an editor. And 
so he finally accepted it and used it in the title of his first ° 
book. 

In the chapter of his relations with the Indians there are mani- 
fold obscuri‘ies and contradictions. He adhered pretty consist- 
ently throughout his life to the assertion that he was in three 
Indian battles or campaigns, the Battle of Castle Rocks, the 


12 ‘Sntroduction 


“Pitt River War,” and a later campaign in Oregon. But according 
to one set of stories he figures as a renegade fighting with the 
Indians against the whites; while according to the other set of 
stories he is fighting with the whites against the Indians. The 
chief prose sources of the renegade story are Life Among the 
Modocs and Memorie And Rime; but he still calls himself a 
“renegade’’ in the introduction to the Bear edition. On the other 
hand, there is in existence among the papers preserved by the 
Miller family a petition for damages, never presented, in which 
Miller represents himself as the victim of Indian depredations; 
and in his annotations of the poem “Old Gib At Castle Rocks’? 
he establishes by a sworn affidavit that this first battle was 
against the “‘ Modocs and Other Renegades,” and that his wound 
in the head was received while he was fighting at Judge Gibson’s 
side. In Memorie And Rime, however, he declares that the battle 
of Castle Rocks was fought under the leadership of De Bloney, 
to punish unfriendly Indians for burning his camp. But inthe 


_ introduction to the Beary edition, he says nothing of De Bloney; 


i 


the leader of Miller’s party is there represented as Mountain Joe, 
who in the battle unites forces with Judge Gibson, the alcalde of 
the district. 

The discrepancies in his various accounts may be explained in 


three ways. First, Miller did in his poems and prose narratives 


deliberately adulterate his facts with imaginary elements inthe 
interest of romance, and like his early model Lord Byron, he 
enjoyed and encouraged identification of himself with all his 
hard-riding, hard-fighting, and amorous heroes. Secondly, he 
tells us that as a result of his arrow wound in the head and neck 


# at the Battle of Castle Rocks, ‘‘on the 1 5th day of June, 1855,” 


4 


he lost his memory for months, was “ nearly a year’’ in recovering, 
and was somewhat feeble minded for sometime after. Thirdly, 


if he ever actually became a renegade and participated in outlaw 
raids, when he returned to ‘“‘civilization’” he indulged in wise 


“lapses of memory.” 


SR ESE Se Poy 


| 
, PJrtroduction ake 
: 


With a consciousness, then, that we are treading the uncertain 
border between fact and fiction, we pull’the arrow from Joaquin’s 
neck in the summer of 1855, and commit him to the care of an 
Indian woman, who treats him as her son. Late in the fall, re- 
‘stored at last to his senses and beginning to recover his strength, 
he teaches school in a mining camp near Shasta City at night and 
tries to mine by day—rather strenuous activities for ‘a feeble- 
‘minded convalescent! But in the following spring, 1856, he again 
joins the red men on the mountain. ‘‘ When the Modocs rose up 
one night and massacred eighteen men, every man in Pitt River 
Valley, I alone was spared” ;—thus runs the introduction to the 
Bear edition—‘‘and spared only because I was Los bobo, the fool. 
Then more battles and two more wounds. My mind was as the 
mind of a child and my memory is uncertain here.” But accord- 
‘ing to Memorie And Rime, news of the Pitt River massacre came 
to Joaquin in the spring of 1857, when he was encamped on the 
spurs of Mt. Shasta, “ sixty miles distant’; so that it must have 
‘been ina later stage of the ‘‘war’’ that he got his ‘‘bullet through 
the right arm.” Had he complicity in the massacre? He raises 
the question. He says that he knew in advance that it had been 
planned, and he sympathized with its perpetrators years later. 
Following it, he made an expedition to Shasta City for ammuni- 
tion to arm De Bloney’s Indians ‘against the brutal and aggres- 
sive white men”; had a horse shot under him by the pursuing 
whites, stole another horse, was overtaken, threatened with 
hanging, lodged in Shasta City jail, ‘‘and my part in the wild 
attempt to found an Indian republic was rewarded with a prompt 
indictment for stealing horses.” This, he says, was in 1859. 
_ After long confinement, he was delivered from jail by the Indians 
| on the night of the 4th of July, thrown upon a horse, ‘‘and such 
_a ride for freedom and fresh air was never seen before.’’ (See 
 Memorie And Rime, pp. 234-235, Life Among the Modocs, chap. 
xxx, and The Tale of the Tall Alcalde.) 

Miller hints, in Memorie And Rime, at one more disastrous 


14 | Introduction 


attempt to carry out De Bloney’s plan for the republic, followed 
by separation from his leader, and flight to Washington Territory. 
But in the introduction to the Bear edition, he interposes at this 
point in his career, though without dates and vaguely and briefly, 
his connection with the filibuster William Walker. “T, being a 
renegade,” he says, ‘descended to San Francisco and set sail for 
Boston, but stopped at N icaragua with Walker.” 

In his poem ‘‘ With Walker in N icaragua,’’ he represents him- 
Self as riding side by side with the filibuster in his campaigns and 
as treated by him like a son; and he always encouraged the com- 
mon belief that this poem had a substantial autobiographical core, 
There is a good deal of evidence for concluding that it had none. 
Walker sailed from San Francisco in May and landed in Nica- 
Tagua on June 16, 1855. On the previous day, Miller was 
wounded at Castle Rocks in northern California. In May, 
1857, Walker left Nicaragua and was a paroled prisoner in the 
United States till August, 1860, when he landed in Honduras, 
where he was executed on the 12th of September in the same year. 
Miller later associated himself with his hero by publishing the 
last words of Walker, obtained from the priest who attended the 
execution; but Miller says in his notes on the poem in the Bear 
edition: ‘‘I was not with him on this last expedition.” Of course 
the intended implication is that he was with Walker on a pre- 
vious expedition. Recruits from California sailed down to join the 
filibuster at frequent intervals, it is true ; but, if any credit is to be 
given to Miller’s Indian stories, he was recovering from his Castle — 
Rocks wound from June, 1855, till the spring of 1856, when he 
joined the red men on the mountains; he spends the winter on the 
spurs of Mt. Shasta, and in the spring of 1857 he becomes impli-_ 
cated in the Pitt River Valley War, in which he is again seriously 
wounded; and his connections with this affair are not terminated _ 
till 1859. He might then have set out in time to join Walker’s — 

~fatal expedition in Honduras; but he tells us that he did not. — 
Walker, in his account of The War in Nicaragua, published in i 


: 


Introduction 15 


1860, nowhere mentions the boy whom he is alleged to have 
fathered. One’s final impression is that the poem is pure fiction, 
| colored by the tales and published narratives of the filibusters 
and perhaps by Miller’s subsequent acquaintance with Central 
America. And this impression is strengthened by Miller’s reply 
-toone who asked him point blank whether he was ever with 
Walker in Nicaragua: ‘‘Was Milton ever in Hell?’’? 

_ The fiasco of De Bloney’s and Joaquin’s Mt. Shasta ‘‘repub- 
lic” fell, according to the legend, in the year of John Brown’s 
raid at Harper’s Ferry, and two years after the ejection of Walker 
from Nicaragua. In Miller’s mind these three curious attempts 
_to escape from the jurisdiction of the United States became closely 
associated memories of forlorn hopes, with a singular appeal to 
his imagination. Writing at Harper’s Ferry in 1883 (Memorie 
And Rime, 228 fi.), he gives this account of his movements and 
sentiments following his alleged connection with Walker and De 
Bloney: ‘I made my way to Washington Territory, sold my 
pistols, and settled down on the banks of the Columbia, near 
Lewis River, and taught school. And here it was that the story 
of John Brown, his raid, his fight, his capture, and his execution, 
all came tome. Do you wonder that my heart went out to him 
and remained with him? I, too, had been in jail. Death and 
disgrace were on my track, and might find me any day hiding 
there under the trees in the hearts of the happy children. And so, 
‘sympathizing, I told these children over and over again the story 
of old John Brown there.” 

_ From 1860 to 1870 Miller was chiefly an Oregonian, though 
he made many excursions from his base. We shall have to notice 
one more interesting inconsistency which casts a suspicion over 
his account of his life with the Indians. In the introduction to 
the Bear edition, he says in his baffling summary fashion, without 
‘dates, that on his return from being ‘‘with Walker,’ he ‘‘went 
home, went to college some, taught school some, studied law at 

1 This reply was related to me by Mrs. Miller. 


16 Introduction 


home some.’ Now, in a note to the Bear edition (vol. 11., p. 185), 
he speaks of teaching school in 1858 below Fort Vancouver, * dur- 
ing vacation at Columbia College, the forerunner of the Oregon 
University”; and, in another note (vol. 1, p. 170), he says that he 
wrote, ‘‘the valedictory class poem’’ for Columbia College in 
1859. It thus appears that his attendance at ‘‘ Columbia College” 
falls in the period when, according to his other stories, he was 
engaged in his last desperate efforts to establish De Bloney’s 
“Mt. Shasta republic’; and his valedictory poem was apparently 
delivered in the year in which he fled from Californian justice to 
hide in Washington Territory. | | 

If one thinks of Miller as having taken a regular college course 
ending in 1859, then one must be prepared to dismiss most of the 
Mt. Shasta stories as mythical; and doubtless there is a large 
element of fictionin them. They are not, however, quite so in- 
consistent with the ‘‘college’”’ course as at first sight they appear. 
Eugene City, in which the ‘‘college’’ was located, was not settled 
till 1854; and the institution, with its “pleasant campus,” in 
which the poem was perhaps delivered five years later was noth- 
ing more than a small town high school or seminary. And Miller, 
returning from California in 1858, or even as late as 1859, might, 
after very brief instruction, have appeared as class poet in 1859. 
It is, moreover, unfortunately necessary to regard the statements 
about his own life made towards the close of his literary career 
with almost as much skepticism as those which he made near its 
outset; and for an interesting reason. In his last period as the 
seer on The Hights, Miller desired to be regarded as an authorita- 
tive man of letters; consequently he minimized his frontier up- 
bringing and magnified his education and general culture. Fur- 
thermore, he ultimately desired to be regarded as devoutly 
American and intensely pacifistic; consequently he touched very 
lightly in later years the period when he was a secessionist, he 
skilfully hinted here and there that the stories of his outlawry, 
were mythical, and he worked over his poems, making great ex- 


: 


Introduction 17 


cisions and adding new passages, with the purpose of harmonizing 
them with his declaration that he would rather starve than be 
celebrated as the poetic glorifier of war.‘ This was obviously a 
difficult task in the case of the bloody and imperialistic career 
of Walker. 

- Inthe summer of 1861 Miller began other interesting adven- 
‘tures which are better attested. At this time he was riding Moss- 
man and Miller’s pony express; carrying letters and gold dust 
between Walla Walla, Washington, and the newly opened mines 
at Millersburg in Idaho. Attracted by certain contributions of 
“Minnie Myrtle” appearing in the newspapers of his pack, he 
wrote to her and had replies. His mining ventures yielded him 
‘enough to enable him to build a “beautiful new home’’ for his 
parents, and also to buy a newspaper. In 1863 he began to edit 
The Democratic Register in Eugene, Oregon, and he avowed south- 
ern sympathies which aroused the community. Though he had 
been brought up an ardent abolitionist and his elder brother John 
had entered the northern army, he himself had imbibed, in his 
“college,” which was tainted with disloyalty, or from the friends 
of Walker, who was a pro-slavery man, or elsewhere—principles 
and sentiments obnoxious to the aroused Unionist spirit of Oregon. 
As he explained it in Memorie And Rime, ‘‘when the war came, 


| 1 “The Tale of the Alcalde,’”’ he says in his note in the Bear edition, “has 
been a fat source of feeding for grimly humorous and sensational writers, who 
long ago claimed to have found in it the story of my early life; and strangely 
| enough I was glad when they did so, and read their stories with wild delight. 
I don’t know why I always encouraged this idea of having been an outlaw, but 
T recall that when Trelawny told me that Byron was more ambitious to be 
thought the hero of his wildest poems than even to be King of Greece I could 
not help saying to myself, as Napoleon said to the thunders preceding Water- 
loo, ‘We are of accord.’ The only serious trouble about the claim that I made 
- the fight of life up the ugly steeps from a hole in an adobe prison-wall to the 
- foothills of Olympus instead of over the pleasant campus ofa college is the fact 
that ‘our friends the enemy’ fixed the date at about the same time in which I 
am on record as reading my class poem in another land.” 


2 


18 Sntroduction 


and the armies went down desolating the South, then with tha 
fatality that has always followed me for getting on the wrong side 
siding with the weak, I forgot my pity for the one in my large 
pity for the other.”’ | 

His entrance into journalism brought him again to the atten, 
tion of his unknown correspondent, ‘‘ Minnie Myrtle,’ who was 
then living in a mining and lumber camp at Port Orford by the 
sea, not far from the southern boundary of Oregon. Twenty 
years later, when this lady died in New York, in May, 1883, 
Miller told in his own fashion the story of his brief unhappy re- 
lations with her. Since they made a turning point in his career 
and introduced into his poetry additional ‘“Byronic’’ notes, let 
us have an abridgment of his own version of the affair as set forth 
in Memorie And Rime. | 

‘When I came down from the mountains and embarked in 
journalism, she wrote to me, and her letters grew ardent and full 
of affection. Then I mounted my horse and rode hundreds of 
miles through the valleys and over the mountains, till I came to. 
the sea, at Port Orford, then a flourishing mining town, and there | 
first saw ‘Minnie Myrtle.’ Tall, dark, and striking in every re- 
spect, this first Saxon woman I had ever addressed had it all her, 
own way atonce. She knew nothing at all of my life, except that | 
I was an expressman and country editor. I knew nothing at all: 
of hers, but I found her with kind, good parents, surrounded by } 
brothers and sisters, and the pet and spoiled child of the mining | 
andlumbercamp. . . . The heart of the bright and merry girl 
was brimming full of romance, hope, and happiness. I arrived on 
Thursday. On Sunday next we were married! Oh, to what else” 
but ruin and regret could such romantic folly lead?” ‘ 

“ Procuring a horse for her’”’—for she, too, was an excellent | 
and daring rider—‘‘we set out at once to return to my post, far 
away over the mountains.” After a week’s ride, the bridal couple 
reached their intended home in Eugene, “but only to find that my | 
paper had been suppressed by the Government, and we resolved | 
| € 
ic 


| 


| 


Introduction 19 


o seek our fortunes in San Francisco. But we found neither 
fortune nor friends in that great city.’’ In 1863 Mrs. Frémont 
vas there, and Charles Warren Stoddard, and Prentice Mulford, 
ind Ina Coolbrith. Bret Harte was writing for The Golden Era. 
The nucleus was already formed of the literary group which 
Mark Twain joined in 1864, and which launched The Californian 
and The Overland Monthly. Whether at this timé Miller made 
any attempt to break into the ‘‘~western school’’ does not appear. 
If he did so, we can understand his failure. He was still a very 
immature writer, though Stoddard records that he did contribute 
to The Golden Era, ‘‘from the backwood depths of his youthful 
obscurity.” But coming as he did in the midst of the Civil War 
to the outskirts of a group animated by Bret Harte, then en- 
gaged in writing strongly patriotic verse and prose, the editor of.a 
paper which had just been suppressed for disloyalty could hardly 
have expected a very cordial reception. 

One is tempted to conjecture that Miller’s failure to establish 
a literary or journalistic connection in the city may perhaps have 
dashed a little the spirits of his bride. At any rate, he says that 
even while they were living in San Francisco, she had presenti- 
ments of ‘‘wreck and storm and separation for us.”’ If thwarted 
aspiration for more literary and social life than she had enjoyed 
in the lumber camp had stimulated these presentiments, they 
must have been strengthened when Joaquin bought a band of 
cattle and journeyed with his wife and baby to a new mining camp 
at Canyon City, in eastern Oregon. As for him, it was the life 
to which he had always been accustomed, and he threw himself 
into the task of establishing himself with unwonted application 
of his restless energy. He practised law among the miners, he 
planted the first orchard in the land, he led in his third Indian 
campaign, he was rewarded in 1866 by election, for a four-year 
term, as judge of the Grant County court, and finally, he had™ 
begun. to occupy himself seriously with poetry. In 1868 he pub- 
lished a pamphlet of Specimens, and in 1869, at Portland, Oregon, 


20 Introduction 


his first book: ‘‘ Joaquin, Et Al., By Cincinnatus H. Miller,’— 
dedicated ‘‘To Maud.’’! | 

Ambition and a multitude of business, as he depicted the 
matter, had’made him not the most genial of companions: | 

“Often I never left my office till the gray dawn, after a day | 
toil and a night of study. My health gave way and I was indeed 
old and thoughtful. Well, all this, you can see, did not suit the 
merry-hearted and spoiled child of the mines at all. . . . She 
became the spoiled child here that she had been at her father’s, 
and naturally grew impatient at my persistent toil and study. But: 
she was good all the time . . . Let me say here, once for all, 
that no man or woman can put a finger on any stain in this 
woman’s whole record of life, so far as truth and purity go. But 
she was not happy here. Impatient of the dull monotony of the 
exhausted mining camp . . . she took her two children and 
returned to her mother, while I sold the little home . . . prom- 
ising to follow her, yet full of ambition now to be elected to a place 
on the Supreme Bench of the State . . . . She had been absent | 
from me quite a year, when . . . I went to Portland, seeking the 
nomination for the place I desired. But the poor impatient lady, 
impulsive as always and angry that I had kept so long away, had 
forwarded papers from her home, hundreds of miles remote, to 
a lawyer here, praying for a divorce. This so put me to shame 
that I abandoned my plans and resolved to hide my head in Eu- 
rope:X, ‘ 
To “hide” his head was hardly the prime object of Miller’s 
first trip abroad, nor, except by a wide poetic license, can the 
phrase be used to describe his activities there. His object was 
more candidly presented in his Byronic “ Ultime,”’ the last poem 
of the little volume, Joaquin, Et Al., published in Portland in| 
1869—a poem written as if in premonition of death: é 


* The contents were: ‘‘Joaquin,” “Is It Worth While,” “Zanara,”’ “Tn 
Exile,’’ ‘To the Bards of S. F. Bay,”’ ‘“‘Merinda,”’ ““Nepenthe,” “ Under the 
Oaks,”’ “ Dirge,” “Vale,” “Benoni,” and “Ultime.” ma 


Introduction 21 


“Tt was my boy-ambition to be read beyond the brine!) 

As soon as Joaquin, Et Al. was published, what Miller burned 
for was a literary recognition impossible on the Oregon frontier. In 
March of 1869, he wrote from Portland to Charles Warren Stod- 
dard to solicit his interest in getting the book adequately noticed 
in The Overland Monthly, which had been launched two months 
before. Stoddard was absent in Hawaii; but in January, 1870, 
Bret Harte gave Joaquin a humorous but not unfriendly salute in 
the new magazine: “We find in ‘Joaquin, et al.’ the true poetic 
instinct, with a natural felicity of diction and a dramatic vigour 
that are good in performance and yet better in promise. Of 
course, Mr. Miller is not entirely easy in harness, but is given to 
pawing and curvetting; and at such times his neck is generally 
clothed with thunder and the glory of his nostrils is terrible.” 

Following this recognition from the leading literary periodical 
of the Far West, Miller came down from Oregon to embrace the 
bards of San Francisco Bay—so romantically addressed by him 
in Joaquin, Et Al—came to embrace them and to be embraced 
by them—‘‘clad,” says Stoddard, who had now returned from 
Hawaii, “in a pair of beaded moccasins, a linen ‘ duster’ that fell 
nearly to his heels, and a broad-brimmed sombrero.” Fresh, 
breezy, ingenuous, Miller exclaimed at once, ‘‘ Well, let us go and 
talk with the poets.” Stoddard took him around to call upon 
‘Bret Harte, and presented him also to the most lyrical third of 
their Trinity, the local Sappho, Ina Coolbrith, who was at once 
impressive and sympathetic. But on the whole, literary glory 
lat the Golden Gate was paler than his expectations—" he had 
‘been somewhat chilled by his reception in the metropolis.”” Had 
he really desired to hide his head, he might have accepted Stod- 
dard’s invitation to flee away with him to the South Seas. In- 
‘stead of doing so, Miller accepted a wreath of laurel from Ina 
‘Coolbrith, to lay on the tomb of Byron, and, in midsummer of 
| 1870, ‘‘started for England in search of fame and fortune.”’ 
One dwells upon his first visit to the old world, because now 


‘$f 


| 
I 
} vA 


/ 


/ 


22 Introduction 


one sees for the first time adequately manifested the literary 
sensibility and the imaginative yearning which for years had beer 
secretly growing in the heart of the judge of Grant County, Ore. 
gon. Here is an astounding fact: jottings from a diary, preserve¢ 
in Memorie And Rime, prove that this backwoodsman went 
abroad, not with the jaunty insolence of Mark Twain’s jolly 
Philistines, but rather in the mood of Henry James’s delicately 
nurtured ‘passionate pilgrims’ of the decade following the Civil 
War, those sentimental and esthetically half-starved young 
Americans, who in the middle years of the last century flung 
themselves with tearful joy on England and Europe as the deat 
homeland of their dreams. There isa touch, sometimes more than 
a touch, of the theatrical in his gesture; but there is an unques- 
tionable depth of sincere feeling animating the performance as a 
whole. 

There is even a touch of pathos—the more affecting because 
he himself, for once, seems hardly aware of it—in the memoranda 
of his departure from New York. He bought his ticket on August 
10, 1870, “‘second class, ship Europa, Anchor Line, to land at: 
Glasgow; and off to-morrow.’’ While waiting for the sailing, he’ 
notes that he has tried in vain to see Horace Greeley and Henry. 
Ward Beecher, but has got some leaves from a tree by the door of 
Beecher’s church ‘‘to send to mother.’’ There, ina sentence, was 
his unconscious epitome of what the higher culture of the Amer- 
ican metropolis had to offer in 1870 to a passionate pilgrim, to a 
romantic poet: the editorials of a great journalist, the sermons of a 
great preacher—a rebuff from the office of the one, and a leaf 
from a tree of the other. A note of the voyage, which he seems to 
have found very dreary, reminds us that the Franco-Prussian 
War was then in progress: ‘‘ A lot of Germans going home to fight 
filled the ship; a hard, rough lot, and they ate like hogs.” 

Arrived in Scotland, he turns his back on commercial Glas- 
gow, and makes straight for the haunts of Burns. On September 
10, he writes: ‘‘God bless these hale and honest Scotch down 


Introduction 23 


ere at peaceful Ayr. . . . One man showed me more than 
hundred books, all by Ayrshire poets, and some of them 
plendid! I have not dared to tell any one yet that I too hope to 


‘ublish a book of verse. . . . Igo every day from here to the 
Auld Brig’ over the Doon, Highland Mary’s grave, and Alloway’s 
uld haunted kirk! . . . Poetry isin the air here. I am work- 
ng like a beaver... . September 18: In the sunset to-day, 


is I walked out for the last time toward the tomb of Highland 
Vary, I met a whole line of splendid Scotch lassies with sheaves 
yf wheat on their heads and sickles on their arms. Their feet 
vere bare, their legs were bare to the knees. Their great strong 
irms were shapely as you can conceive; they were tall, and their 
ifted faces were radiant with health and happiness. I stepped 
iside in the narrow road to enjoy the scene and let them pass. 
They were going down the sloping road toward some thatched 
sottages by the sea; I towards the mountains. How beautiful! 
[ uncovered my head as I stepped respectfully aside. But giving 
the road to women here seems to be unusual. . .” Having 
paid his devotions to Burns, his ‘‘brother,’’ he goes on into the 
Scott country, wades the Tweed, and spends a night in Dryburgh 
Abbey. 

Thence he proceeds, with ever more reverential mood, to 
Nottingham, where he lays his western laurel on the tomb of his 
“master,” Byron, and bargains with the care-taker ‘‘to keep the 
wreath there as long as he lives (or I have sovereigns).’’ ‘“‘O my 
poet!’ he cries, ‘‘ Worshipped where the world is glorious with the 
fire and the blood of youth! Yet here in your own home—ah 
well!” The parallelism between Byron's fate and his own, on 
which he broods in Nottingham, stimulates him to fresh poetical 
‘efforts. On September 28, the record runs: ‘‘Have written 
lots of stuff here. I have been happy here. I have worked and 
not thought of the past. But to-morrow I am going down to 
Hull, cross the Channel, and see the French and Germans fight. 
For I have stopped work and begun to looki-back. : jus tie Lsee 


24 Introduction 


the snow-peaks of Oregon all the time when I stop work. . 
And then the valley at the bottom of the peaks; the people there: 
the ashes on the hearth; the fire gone out. . . . The old story 
of Orpheus in hell has its awful lesson. I, then, shall go forward 
and never look back any more. Hell, I know, is behind me. 
There cannot be worse than hell beforeme. . . . Yet forall this 
philosophy and this setting the face forward, the heart turns 
back.” 

After a glimpse of the war, he began on November 2, 1870, hig 
adventures in London,—which he found delightfully different 
from New York—by walking straight to Westminster Abbey, 
guided only by the spirit in his feet. Later, he continued his 
passionate pilgrimage by looking up the haunts of Washington 
Irving and Bayard Taylor, and he lived for a while in Camber- 
well, because Browning had lived there. In February, 1871, he 
was lodged in a garret of the poet Cowley’s house, “ right back of 
the Abbey,” looking out on Virginia creepers planted by Queen 
Elizabeth, and listening to the sound of the city’s bells. Re- 
freshed from his bath in the stream of poetic tradition and ‘‘at- 
mospherically”’ inspired, Miller made a little book called Pacific 
Poems, containing ‘‘ Arazonian”’ and his drama “ Oregonia,’’ and, 
having printed, at his own expense, a hundred copies, he scoured 
the city seeking a publisher. But the publishers would have none 
of it. Murray, ‘‘son of the great Murray, Byron’s friend,” re- 
ceived him, indeed, and showed him many pictures of Byron, but 
rejected the proffered opportunity to become Joaquin’s publisher, 
saying, with definitive uplifted finger: ‘‘ Aye, now, don’t you know 
poetry won't do? Poetry won’t do, don’t you know?”’ : 

In other quarters he met with better fortune. Knocking at 
the door of Punch, as a nameless American, he was cordially 
received by ‘‘my first, firmest friend in London,” a man in whose 
arms Artemus Ward had died,—Tom Hood, son of the famous 
humorist. By March, 1871, he got his Pacific Poems to the re- 
views and into a kind of private circulation without a publisher. 


De i aa 


Introduction 25 


Almost at once both book and author began to catch the fancy of 
‘the London literary tasters, who are always hospitably inclined 
to real curiosities from overseas, and welcome a degree of crudity 
in a trans-Atlantic writer as evidence that he is genuinely Amer- 
ican. By the end of the month, ‘‘Arazonian”’ was attributed by 
the Saint James Gazette to Robert Browning; and, notes the diary, 
“Walter Thornbury, Dickens’s dear friend, and a better poet than 
‘Ican hope to be, has hunted me up, and says big things of the 
‘Pacific Poems’ in the London Graphic.” There are, moreover, 
“two splendid enthusiasts from Dublin University.” And, 
finally, Tom Hood has introduced him to the society poet of the ( 
city, who, in turn, has given him letters “to almost everybody”; | 
and so he is socially launched. With this encouragement and | 
backing, he attacks the publishers again, this time successfully. | 
By April, 1871, Longmans has brought out his Songs of the| 
Sierras, and Miller’s ‘‘boy-ambition”’ is accomplished. i 
At one stride he had stepped from backwoods obscurity into 
‘the full noontide of glory; and it is not strange that the remem+- 
brance of his English reception dazzled him for the rest of his life. 
It is hardly an exaggeration to say that this acclaim was instan- 
taneous, enthusiastic, and unanimous—‘‘over generous,” he 
called it, years later, when he published in the Bear edition some 
thirty pages of appreciations from the English press, including 
The Spectator, The Atheneum, The Saturday Review, The Pall Mall 
-—Gazeite, The I llustrated London News, The Academy, The Evening 
_ Standard, The Westminster Review, The Dark Blue, The London 
Sunday Times, Chambers’s Journal, Frazer’s Magazine, The Even- 
ing Post, The Globe, The Morning Post, and others. These are 
largely concerned with his first volume, The Songs of the Sierras. 
_ The reviewers, in general, touch lightly upon his obvious inequali- 
ties, blemishes, slips in grammar, and faults in metre; some of 
them apologize slightly for his frontier culture, more recognize it 
boldly as the source of his power, and proceed to speak in glow- 
ing terms of his freshness of theme and treatment, of his tropical 


26 Sutroduction 


color, his myth-making power, his fluent, rapid, and melodious 
verse, and “ the supreme independence, the spontaneity, the all- 
pervading passion, the unresting energy, and the prodigal wealth 
of imagery which stamp the poetry before us.” 

They did not hesitate, this chorus of reviewers, to tell him 
that his poetry was the most important that had ever come out of 


America. Nor did they stop with this equivocal praise. The 


Atheneum found him like Browning in his humor and in the 
novelty of his metaphor. The Saturday Review dwelt on his By- 
ronic qualities, and remarked in him ‘‘a ring of genuineness which 
is absent from Byron.” The Westminster Review thought that he 
reminded one of Whitman, with the coarseness left out. And 
The Academy gravely declared, that “there is an impassable gap 
between the alien couleur locale of even so great a poet as Victor 
Hugo in such a work as Les Orientales, and the native recipiency 


of one like our California author, whose very blood and bones are 


related to the things he describes, and from whom a perception 
and a knowledge so extremely unlike our own are no more separ- 
able than his eye, and his brain.”’ 


In the wake of the journalistic ovation, social invitations came 


in upon the poet faster than he could accept or answer them. 
Among those which he had put aside were three letters signed 


‘“ Dublin.”” His Irish friends discovered these and explained that 


they were from the Archbishop (Trench). ‘At ‘Dublin’s’ break- 


fast,’’ says Miller, ‘‘I met Robert Browning, Dean Stanley, Lady 
Augusta, a lot more ladies, and a duke or two, and after break- 


fast, ‘Dublin’ read to me—with his five beautiful daughters 


grouped about—from Browning, Arnold, Rossetti, and others, 


till the day was far spent.’”? The other great feast of the season 
was an all-night dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, at which all 
“the literary brain” of London was present. As he recalled the 


event, with an intoxication of delight, later in the summer: 
“These giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, 


passed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty 


| 


Introduction a7 


panorama. . . . If I could remember and write down truly 
and exactly what these men said, | would have the best and the 


greatest book that was ever written.” 


From this rather bewildering contact with the Pre-Raphaelite 


group, Miller departed with a vivid conviction that he, too, was 
above all else, a lover of the beautiful; and he carried away a 
strong impression, which markedly affected his next volume of 
poems, that beauty is resident in “ alliteration and soft sounds.”’ 
Perhaps, however, the most noteworthy utterance which he pre- 
“served was his own reply to a question of Rossetti’s: 


“Now, what do you call poetry?’ and he turned his great 
Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.” 

“<To me a poem must be a picture,’ I answered.” 

There was more than a drop of bitterness mingled in the joy of 


‘his English welcome. With the cup raised to his lips, he wrote in 
‘his diary, ‘‘I was not permitted to drink.” In the midsummer of 
“this most triumphal year, he received news that his sister had died. 


He returned to the United States, only in time to attend the death- 


| bed of his elder brother in Pennsylvania. Revisiting his parents 
in Oregon, he found his mother in broken health and failing mind. 
Furthermore, the American reception of his poems lacked the 


York Nation in 1871: ‘It is the ‘sombreros’ and ‘serapes ’ and 
_‘ gulches,’ we suppose, and the other Californian and Arizonian 
_ properties, which have caused our English friends to find in Mr. 


Miller a truly American poet. Heis Mr. William Rossetti’s latest 


discovery. We trust, however, that we have no monopoly of ig- 
“norance and presumption and taste for Byronism. In other 


climes, also, there have been Firmilians, and men need not be 
born in California to have the will in excess of the understand- 


28 Introduction 


ing and the understanding ill informed. There are people of all 
nationalities whom a pinch more brains and a trifle more of diffi- 
dence would not hurt.” : 

The chilliness of American literary criticism was not all, nor 
perhaps the worst, that Miller had to face on his return to the 
United States. During his absence in Europe, he had been ac- 
cused at home, and not without a basis in fact, of deserting his 
wife. His celebrity as author of Songs of the Sierras gave news- 
paper value to the story. And in the fall of 1871, “Minnie 
Myrtle” made the entire subject a topic for editorial comment 
both at home and abroad by corroborating the story and then 
proceeding, in the spirit of magnanimity or of irony or of publicity, 
to justify the poet. Early in 1872, The Saturday Review sum- 
marized ‘‘Minnie Myrtle’s’’ communication to the American 
press, and discussed it at length, with elaborate comparison of the 
classical case of Lord Byron. From this discussion the following 
extract will suffice for our purposes: 

“The public, she holds [by her own act belying the conten- 
tion], has nothing to do with Mr. Miller except as a poet, and has 
no right to sit in judgment on his conduct as a husband or father; 
and in the next place, poets are different from other people, and 
their lives must be judged, if at all, by a different standard. 
Mr. Miller, we are informed, ‘felt that he was gifted, and his 
mind being of a fine, poetic structure, and his brain very delicately 
organized, the coarse and practical duties of providing for a 
family, and the annoyance of children, conflicted with his dreams 
and literary whims.’ It had been for years his ambition to go to 
Europe and become famous. Time and money were of course 
necessary to his project, and when he wrote to his wife that he 
should be absent for five or six years, and that she must not ex- 
pect to hear from him often, she thought it would be better to 
release him at once from domestic obligations. . . . Mrs. 
Miller assures us that she fully sympathized with her husband’s 
projects, and that she believes them to be justified by their prac- 


* 
¥ 


er 


Introduction 29 


tical results. ‘Mr. Miller,’ she says, ‘felt that he had gifts of the 
/ mind, and if his system of economy was rigid and hard to endure, 
it was at least a success; and if he needed all his money to carry 
out his plans, I am satisfied that he thus usedit. . . . As we 
}are both mortals, it would be affectation in me were I to profess 
‘to take upon myself all the blame, but I ask to bear my full share. 
i Good sometimes comes of evil. . . . Our separation 
}and sorrows produced the poems of ‘Myrrh’ and ‘Even So.’” 
It was at about this point in his career that Miller proved the 
»adage about a prophet in his own country. 

And now perhaps he did seriously consider hiding his head for 
}a time in Europe—hiding it in the Byronic fashion. From early 
in 1872 till 1875 ‘‘ Childe’ Miller wandered extensively, returning 
| to Europe with a wide detour by way of South America and the 
Near East. From scattered references one gathers that he made 
acquaintance with the Emperor of Brazil, that he went down the 
Danube and up the Nile, saw Athens and Constantinople, visited 
Palestine, and was ‘‘in and about the tomb of buried empires and 
forgotten kings.”” These wanderings, impossible to trace in de- 
tail, were interrupted and punctuated by considerable periods of 
steady literary work, by visits to England, by a sojourn in Italy, 
and by publications—all of which can be dated with tolerable 
accuracy. 

Beside the new edition of Songs of the Sierras, he published in 
1873 the first reflection of these travels in Songs of the Sun-Lands. 
Of this, a reviewer in the Atheneum said, ‘‘ Mr. Miller’s muse in 
this, its second flight, has taken the same direction as in its first 
essay, but, upon the whole, we think, with a stronger wing.” In 
the prelude to the first long poem in the book, Miller cries with 
fine bravado that ‘‘the passionate sun and the resolute sea’”’ have 
‘been his masters, ‘“‘and only these.’ So far as the prosodical 
“qualities of this collection are concerned, this announcement is 
| * This poem, ‘An Answer,” he transferred in his collective edition to the 
end of the series called The Ultimate West. 


30 Introduction 


amusing, because nowhere else in his work does he show himself 
so obviously the ‘‘sedulous ape” of his English contemporaries. 
The volume is dedicated to the Rossettis; in ‘Isles of the Ama- 
zons’’ he is affected by the stanza of ‘‘In Memoriam’ and he also 
echoes Mrs. Browning; remembering the Rossetti dinner of 1871, 
he works on the theory that ‘‘a poem must be a picture,”’ and he 
is everywhere studious of ‘‘alliteration and soft sounds’’; finally 
in the Palestinian sequence called ‘‘ Olive Leaves,” the influence of 
Swinburne has quite transformed and disguised the sound of his 
voice: 


With incense and myrrh and sweet Spices, 
Frankincense and sacredest oil 
In ivory, chased with devices 
Cut quaint and in serpentine coil; 
Heads bared, and held down to the bosom; 
Brows massive with wisdom and bronzed; 
Beards white as the white may in blossom, 
And borne to the breast and beyond,— 
Came the Wise of the East, bending lowly 
On staffs, with their garments girt round 
With girdles of hair, to the Holy 
Child Christ, in their sandals. 


Despite all this mimicry in the manner, the stuff in the Songs 
of the Sun-Lands is, in great measure, Miller’sown. In “ Isles of 
the Amazons’ he considers himself as a scout of the imagination, 
a Kit Carson of poetry, who has carried his banner from Oregon 
and the Sierras to plant it in South American islands by a mighty 
unsung river. His hero, a singing warrior fleeing from strife to. 
seek a Utopian peace and felicity, is once more a kind of self- 
projection. “From Sea to Sea’’ is a poetical reminiscence of a 
transcontinental journey by the new Pacific Railway. “ By the 
Sun-Down Seas,”’ which he later cut up into its constituent pic- 
tures, sings the glories of Oregon and the emigrants. In “Olive 
Leaves,”’ his garland from Palestine, he begins a peculiarly Amer-— 


Introduction dl 


jean reappropriation of Christianity and an assimilation of it to 
his growning humanitarian sentiment. And ‘Fallen Leaves’ 
are for the most part memories of the West. So that if he does not 
exhibit any very daring unconventionalities in form, he does 
employ his forms with a good deal of flexibility in imaginatively 
molding the raw stuff of American experience. 

_ In 1873, also, Miller published in France and England the 
most original and the most poetical of all his books in prose, and, 
on the whole, perhaps the most interesting book that he ever 
produced, Life Among the Modocs, which circulated in translations, 
later editions, and abridgments, pirated or otherwise, under var- 
ious titles—as Unwritten History, Scenes de la vie des mineurs et 
des Indiens de California, Paquita, My Own Story, and My Life 
Among the Indians. In 1872 and 1873 the Modoc Indians were 
attracting the attention of the public by their stubborn resistance 
to the government’s attempt to move them from their old lands 
toa new reservation. In the course of this resistance their killing 
of two peace commissioners naturally excited popular indignation. 
But in Miller, instinctively sympathetic with the underdog, the 
last hopeless stand of this warlike tribe, which he had known in 
his boyhood, appealed strongly to the humanitarian sentiment, 
stirred up old memories, and aroused the imagination. He had, 
as we have seen, in at least one of his “‘campaigns”’ fought against 
them; but now as a poet and Utopian he is all on their side, he 
embraces their cause, he speaks from their point of view, he 
makes himself one of them. 

In the introduction to the Bear edition he gives this brief ac- 
count of the origin of the book: ‘“‘ Having met the Prince on a visit 
from Nicaragua at the time, he helped me to recall our life among 
the Modocs, adding such romance of his own as he chose.”’ 
Elsewhere he acknowledges the collaboration of Prentice Mulford. 
How much is due to the influence of these collaborators, one can- 
not say; but there is a continuity of narrative and dramatic and 
idyllic interest in the tale, unequalled in Miller’s other prose fic- 


eee 


82 Introduction 


tion. The authors enter with genuine enthusiasm into the exhib 
tion of the white man’s inhumanity, the virtues of the ‘nob 
savage,’ the chivalry of the Prince, the heroic fidelity of Paquit: 
the yellow-haired poetic renegade and his dusky bride, and tt 
romantic and melancholy charm of life on the forested slopes « 
Mt. Shasta. There is a wavering thread of autobiographical fac 
running through the romance; but the romance is here far mor 
significant than the thread of fact; all that Miller, as a poeti 
dreamer, longed to have been, all that he could not be, inextric 
ably fused with what he was, is here projected, beautifully, by h: 
imagination. He so long encouraged the acceptance of the boo 
as “history” that perhaps in his later years he actually lost th 
ability, never notable in him, to distinguish what he had don 
from what he had dreamed. In 1874 this book, with the titl 
Unwritten History: Life Among the Modocs, was brought out i 
a subscription edition by the American Publishing Company 
and in the advertising pages of this edition is third in a list begir 
ning with Mark Twain’s The Gilded Age and Josh Billings’ 
Everybody's Friend. | 

In Memorie And Rime, Miller says that he returned to Londo 
in November, 1874, from his long wanderings in Europe. Af 
parently, however, he had returned to England in the precedin 
year, perhaps partly to enjoy the réclame of his two new books 
In 1873, at any rate, he made his acquaintance with that poe 
and patron of the arts and great organizer of literary breakfasts 
Lord Houghton. In Reid’s Life of Lord H. oughion little record re 
mains of this friendship, except a letter of August 5, 1873, ad 
dressed to Gladstone, in which Miller is commended as ‘‘mos 
interesting as poet and man, I have known and asked nothin; 
as to his private life.’ Augustus Hare (The Story of My Life 
vol. iv) makes a supercilious reference to the poet’s appearance 
at one of these breakfasts: ‘Joaquin Miller would have beer 
thought insufferably vulgar if he had not been a notoriety: as if 
was, every one paid court to him.” But various letters and refer- 


i 
| 
ie Sntroduction aes 
‘ences in Traubel’s With Walt Whitman in Camden show that Miller 
returned Lord Houghton’s courtesies in America, in 1875, and at- 
tempted to bring about a meeting between his English friend 
and Whitman. Furthermore Miller speaks of traveling with 
Lord Houghton in Greece; and in a note of the Bear edition (vol. 
iv., p. 154) he gives interesting hints at the sort of figure that he 
himself made in English country life: 
_ “Born to the saddle and bred by a chain of events to ride with 
the wind until I met the stolid riders of England, I can now see 
how it was that Anthony Trollope, Lord Houghton and others of 
the saddle and ‘meet’ gave me ready place in their midst. 
! In all our hard riding I never had a scratch. One morning Trol- 
lope hinted that my immunity was due to my big Spanish saddle, 
: which I had brought from Mexico City. I threw my saddle on the 
‘grass and rode without so much as a blanket. And I rode neck to 
neck; and then left them all behind and nearly every one un- 
horsed. Prince Napoleon was of the party that morning; and as 
‘the gentlemen pulled themselves together on the return he kept 
by my side, and finally proposed a tour through Notts and Sher- 
‘wood Forest on horseback. And so it fell out that we rode to- 
' gether much.” 
With so much cordiality manifesting itself abroad and so little 
'at home, it is not strange that Miller, after this second visit to 
England, should have entertained for a time the notion of fixing 
his residence in a foreign land. It behooved him, furthermore, as 
a faithful follower of Lord Byron, to dwell in Italy. He says, 
‘with customary indefiniteness as to dates, that, in the footsteps 
of his hero, he ‘“‘lived long enough at Genoa to find that his life 
there, along with the Shelleys, was simple, sincere, and clean. 
From Genoa I went to Florence, as the guest of our Consul Gen- 
eral, Lorimer Graham. I wanted to live with Mr. Graham be- 
cause he and his most amiable lady lived in the house occupied 
| by Byron and the Shelleys, when they made their home in Flor- 
ence. At Venice, under the guidance of Browning, who had left 
3 


34 Introduction 


Florence to live in this latter place, after the death of his gift. 
wife, I found only the same story of industry, sobriety and dev 
tion to art.” Charles Warren Stoddard gives a glimpse of Miller 
secretive life in Rome, picturing him driving out with the “Pin 
Countess,’ and declares that Miller’s Italian novel, The O 
Fair Woman, 1876, with its epigraphs from Byron, Brownin; 
Swinburne, and Hay, ‘embodies’? much of Miller’s Roman lif 
and is “one of the truest tales he ever told.” Additional light o 
this period is thrown by Songs of Italy, 1878, a collection man 
festly produced under the influence of Browning. The Ship in th 
Desert, published in book form in 1875, is preceded by an elc 
quent prose inscription to his parents, dated August, 1874, a 
Lake Como. At about this time Miller bought some land nea 
Naples and, in company with an English poet, meditated settlin 
there; but malarial fever attacked them both, his friend died, an 
the Italian chapter of his life was ended. 

In November, 1875, Miller dated at Chicago an introducton 
allegorical poem, prefixed to Mary Murdock Mason’s litth 
Italian novel Mae Madden, published in 1876. In the course o 
the next decade he roved widely, as was his wont, but this is, 
general, the period of his experiments at living in eastern cities 
including Boston, New York, and Washington, where he buil: 
himself a log cabin, and, in his frontier costume, became the 
picturesque publicity man for the “ western school.’”’ Bret Harte 
and Mark Twain, now at the height of their production, were 
creating a lively demand for the tales of the pioneers; and Mille 
perhaps perceived that if he was to have his due profit of the 
popular interest he must renounce his Italian and Oriental in. 
clinations and return to his native fields. In 1876, at any rate, 
he published First Fam’lies of the Sierras, a prose tale of the 
Forty-Niners, marked by that chivalric sentiment for women and 
by that idealization of the noble men in red shirts, which are dis- 
tinctive ‘‘notes” of this literary movement. In The Baroness of 
New York, 1877, a long romantic medley in verse, he dismally 


Introduction 35 


ailed in his attempt to extend the adventures of his western 
heroine into the society of the metropolis. A presentation copy 
Mf this book, now in the possession of the University of Chicago, 
years the author’s own veracious comment that it “isn’t worth a 
famn.”’ Though he salvaged a portion of it in ‘‘ The Sea of Fire,” 
whe original title disappeared from his collective edition. Soon 
‘fter his return to America, he began to be visited by dramatic 
Inspirations; and in 1881 he achieved considerable success with 
he Danites in the Sierras. The three other plays which he pre- 
served—Forty-Nine, Tally-Ho, and An Oregon Idyl—are like 
The Danites in presenting incidents in the story of the frontier. 
n 1881, he published also The Shadows of Shasta, a prose tale 
fnticipating Helen Hunt Jackson’s Ramona in indignation at our 
treatment of the Indians. In 1884 falls the interesting but very 
"ragmentary autobiographical miscellany called Memorie And 
Rime. With The Destruction of Gotham, 1886, a sensational novel 
lof class-conflict in New York City, Miller somewhat significantly 
‘terminated his search for fortune and glory in the eastern states. 

' He had been a sentimental pilgrim in England, a poetic re- 
‘fugee in Italy, and a picturesque visitor—an ambassador from 
‘the Sierras—even in New York and Washington. Though he had 
‘enjoyed playiay, atl these parts, perhaps by 1886 he felt that he 
and his public were »eginning to lose their zest for one another. 
‘Furthermore he had now married again and at least entertained 
‘the thought of settling down. The loss of considerable money in 
‘Wall Street speculations had shaken his faith in “capitalistic 
society’? and had weakened the Babylonian attractions of metro- 
‘politan life. He remembered the mountains and the seas of the 
West. He remembered also Sir Walter Scott’s castle and estate 
at Abbotsford as a general model of the fashion in which a great 
poet should live. Mingled with these memories, in the back- 
ground of his mind there was a curious accumulation of Utopian 
and Arcadian dreams which from his boyhood he had vaguely 


desired to realize. And so at last the prophet returned to his own 
| 


onundie 
lo] 


36 Introduction 


country, and. entering upon a tract of land upon the hills lookin 
over Oakland to San Francisco Bay, he built there a house for hi 
wife which he called The Abbey (commemorating at once he 
name and Dryburgh and Newstead Abbeys), a second cottag 
for his old mother, a third ‘‘bower’”’ for his daughter, and a littl 
guest house for whatever visitor, white, black, or yellow, cared t 
occupy it. There, too, he planted thousands of trees in the shap 
of a gigantic cross, and beneath them on the crest of the hill h 
built for himself a funeral pyre of the rough cobble, and he erectex 
three monuments of stone to three heroes: General Frémont 
Robert Browning, and Moses. ) 
Miller says that his choice of this retreat on the hills was deter 

mined by the relative cheapness of the land; but he was not ¢ 

practical man, and he must soon have forgotten this practica 
consideration in the more characteristic reflection that The 

Hights was just the right setting for a man like him. His pri- 
mary purpose there was not to follow any gainful occupation but te 
live as all poetic Utopians have held that a man should live, toiling 

a couple of hours each day at honest labor of the hands and 
devoting the rest of life to love, friendship, and art. The liter- 

ary expression of his dream appears in The Building of the City 
Beautiful, 1893, a Utopian romance obviously related to the 
writings of Ruskin and William Morris but apparently inspired 
directly by Miller’s conversations with a Jewish radical in Pales- 
tine. He had it in mind also to gather around him likeminded 
workers and friends, who should give to the world below them a ) 
illustration of the felicity in store for humanity when the base. 
passions which now govern society are eradicated. Several young 
poets and artists came to him and tarried for a time in his guest 
house, moved by curiosity or the hopes of youth—among them 
several Japanese, including Yone N oguchi. And students from 
the University in Berkeley and travelers from remoter places, 
made little pilgrimages up into the hills to visit this romantically | 
costumed poet and seer who had fought with Indians and now 


< 


| 
az ; 


Introduction a7 


yreached universal love and peace. To his disciples and lovers 
re lectured in a somewhat oracular tone on the laws of the new 
American poetry, on the conduct of life, and on the new religious 
ipirit which is to embrace all mankind. 

Miller’s visitors did not always, however, find him preaching 
yeace. His pacificism, like the popular American variety, was 
empered by hatred of oppression and readiness to fight “on the 
ide of the Lord.”’ He accepted the ‘‘idealistic’’ interpretation of 
the Spanish-American war, and chanted lustily his encourage- 
ment of the struggle to free the Cubans from the tyranny of 
Spain. On the other hand, in his Chants for the Boer, 1900, he 
orotested indignantly against the British imperial policy in 
South Africa; and his strong pro-English sympathies give a cer- 
tain moral quality to his indignation. ‘‘Find here,’’ he cries, 
not one ill word for brave old England; my first, best friends 
were English. But for her policy, her politicians, her speculators, 
what man with a heart in him can but hate and abhor these’ 
England’s best friends to-day are those who deplore this assault 
n the farmer Boers, so like ourselves a century back.”’ 

There was an interesting element of inconsistency between 
the popular American humanitarianism which Miller had grad4 
ually adopted as his religion and his strongest poetical impulses, 
which were adventurous and imperialistic. In these later years 
the fire of his fighting youth slumbered in the veins of the white+ 
bearded seer, but it was never extinguished, and, every now and 
then, it flashed out. Insuchseasons pilgrims to The Hights found 
that he was not at home. He was a restless soul—like most Uto- 
pists, ill adapted to the permanency of a Paradise. There was, 
moreover, a steadily disquieting feature in the prospect from his 
hills. At his feet, the great ships rode at anchor. But before 
his eyes daily they lifted anchor and spread their wings and sailed 
away, out through the shining Golden Gate into the Pacific, and 
disappeared on pathless ways over the rim of the world. For 
him, even at the age of sixty, the attraction of unknown places 


38 Introduction 


was magical. He followed ‘‘the gleam”’ to the islands of the Sout 
Seas, to Japan, to Alaska. In 1897-8 he was correspondent of the 
New York Journal in the Klondike. Trying to pass from the 
Klondike to the Bering Sea by way of the Yukon, he finds the 
river closed at the edge of the Arctic Circle. ‘‘It was nearly twe 
thousand miles to the sea, all ice and snow, with not so much asé 
dog-track before me and only midnight round about me. There 
was nothing to do but to try to get back to my cabin on the 
Klondike. In the line of my employment I kept a journal of the 
solitary seventy-two days and nights—mostly night—spent in the 
silent and terrible ascent of the savage sea of ice.”” The imagina : 
tive harvest of these later adventures was first gathered up in A; ‘ 
It Was in the Beginning, 1903, a curious poetical fantasy, oddly 
brought forth in San Francisco in pamphlet form with a covel 
decorated by a figure of a stork bearing in his bill the infant Roose- 
velt in spectacles. In 1907, worked over and shorn of its more 
grotesque features, the poem reappeared in dignified form as 
Light, with the interesting prefatory avowal: “‘ My aspiration is 
and ever has been, in my dim and uncertain way, to be a sort of 
Columbus—or Cortez.’ (In the collective edition the title is 
changed once more to A Song of Creation.) : 
When Miller finally reviewed his own work and prepared his 
collective edition, he saw that much of his verse had been hastily 
written, journalistic, prolix, lacking in form and conte 
| 


and he manfully discarded many long passages of it. At the same 
time he felt as never before the importance of his own position : 
in American poetry. He had not really achieved a distinctive 
poetical style. He had not been a thinker. He had been a path- | 
finder of the imagination; like Whitman, he had blazed a way 
into new territories. He had brought something of beauty and 
splendor into American literature. He exulted in the wide lands! 
and seas which he first had annexed to the provinces of song. He 
had sung the exodus across the plains. He had pictured the great 
American desert. He had celebrated the forested heights of the 


= - 
i + te ee 


Jntroduction 39 


Sierras, the giant trees of the Mariposa Grove, and the falls of 
the Yosemite. He had been a myth-maker and had sown with 
poetic legends all his western land from the Yukon and the 
snowy peaks of Mt. Rainier and Mt. Shasta through the golden 
poppy fields of the central valleys to San Diego Bay, Nicaragua, 
and the Amazon River. He had made captive for romance the 
outlaws of old Spanish California, the priests and bandits of 
Mexico, the scouts of Frémont, dusky Indian heroines, and the 
motley multitude of the gold-seekers. He had been the champion 
of oppressed peoples—the Southern Confederacy, the native 
American tribes, the Jews of Russia and Palestine, the Cubans, 
the Boers, the yellow men and the Mexicans in California. And 
then, to widen his horizon at sunset, he had threaded the golden 
straits and had sailed ‘‘on and on” to the Arctic Seas, to Hawaii, 
to the Orient, chanting as he sailed, ever ready for fresh adven- 
ture, ever in love with light, color, and movement, ever himself 
the romantic troubadour, the picturesque incarnation of the 
spirit which pervades his poems. 


WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME 


Ala. 


iy ay gi = 


% 


Py AR ees 


We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe- 
canoe, 

In a lone, lost cabin, with never a 

: view 

Of the full day’s sun for a whole year 

| through. 

With strange half hints through the 

Trusset corn 

We three were hurried one night. 

| Next morn 

There was frost on the trees, and a 
sprinkle of snow 

And tracks on the ground. We 

burst through the door, 

And a girl baby cried—and then we 

__were four. 


[ 


| 
| 
WHEN LITTLE 


SISTER CAME 


We were not sturdy, and we were not 
wise, 

In the things of the world, and the 
ways men dare; 

A pale-browed mother with a 
prophet’s eyes, 

A father that dreamed and looked 
anywhere, 

Three brothers—wild blossoms, tall 
fashioned as men 

And we mingled with none, but we 
lived as when 

The pair first lived, ere they knew the 
fall; 

And loving all things we believed in 
all. 


43 


: ie Saf 4 as a cs ray, ie ; v1 ‘ ‘ 5, 
rari WPA erage Bai ral 
2 a Meas Be AG ake 


te 
2 


rs 
BABE 


we 
‘i 
4 
mt 
ee 
is 
ry 


URE angiden ls fae Vie 


Beat 


Mea Ae 
i 


FROM JOAQUIN, Er AL., 1869 


45 


IS IT WORTH WHILE? 


$ it worth while that we jostle a 
brother 
Bearing his load on the rough road 
__ of life? 
$it worth while that we jeer at each 
other 
In blackness of heart?—that we 
war to the knife? 
God pity us allin our pitiful strife. 


rod pity us all as we jostle each 
other; 
God pardon us all for the triumphs 
we feel 
Vhen a fellow goes down ’neath his 
load on the heather, 
Pierced to the heart: words are 
keener than steel, 
And mightier far for woe or for weal. 


Vere it not well in this brief little 
‘journey 
| Over the isthmus downintothetide, 
Ve give him a fish instead of a ser- 
pent 
Ere folding hands to be and abide 
For ever and aye in dust at his side? 


00k at the roses saluting each other ; 

Look at the herds all at peace on 
| the plain— 

Man, and man only, makes war on 
- his brother, 

_ And dotes in his heart on his peril 
and pain— 


47 


i’ 


\/ 
| 
3 


Shamed by the brutes that go down 
on the plain. 


Is it worth while we should in the 
dust humble 
Our fellows with whispers of guile 
and mistrust? 
God pity us all! Time eft-soon will 
tumble 
All of us together like leaves in a 
gust, 
Humbled indeed, down into the 
dust. 


Why should we envy a moment of 
pleasure 
Some poor fellow-mortal has wrung 
from it all? 
Oh! could you look into his life’s 
broken measure— 
Look at the dregs—at the worm- 
wood and gall— 
Look at his heart hung with crape 
like a pall— 


Look at the skeletons down by his 
hearthstone— 
Look at his cares in their merciless 
sway, 
I know you would go and say ten- 
derly lowly, 
Brother—my brother, for aye and 
for aye, 
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness 
away. 


48 


Zanara 


ZANARA 


No! It was not well, Zanara, 

While the fever held its riot— 

When the doctors bid be quiet— 

That you came to my bed-side 

In the middle of the night, 

With your two hands on your heart— 

That you pressed on my bed-side 

In the absence of my bride, 

And so pressed upon your heart 

That the blood all thick and black- 
ened, 

When your long white fingers slack- 
ened, 

Oozed between them to the floor. 

Oh! This mouldy, gory floor! 


Then your linen it was moulded, 

And streaked yellow where it folded, 

And your bosom it was bare, 

Which you know was nothing fair 

In the absence of my bride, 

Then your heavy, slimy hair, 

Creeping, clinging round your 
bosom— 

Clammy bosom, blue and bare, 

Which you did not try to hide. 


Then your eyes had such a glare, 
And the smell of death was there, 
And the spirits that were with you 
Whistled through the mossy door, 
And they danced upon my bosom, 
And they tangled up my hair, 

And made crosses on the floor. 

No! All this was nothing fair 


While the fever held its riot— 
When the doctors bid be quiet. 


It was not my fault, remember, 
All this life of black disasters— 
All this life of dark December— 
All this heart-sickness and sadnes; 
Though we both did have our mi 
ters, 

Yours was Love and mine Ambition 
Mine is driving me to—madness, 
Yours has drove you to perdition. - 


But some time, if you so will it, 
When this hot brain is less rabid— 
When our masters both are sleeping 
When the storm the stars is keepit 
Leave the darkness where they la 
you— | 
Leave the dampness you inhabit— 
Leave that yellow, moulded linen 
That dull, sullen, frozen stare, 
And the cold death in your hair; — 
Then I will no more upbraid you. 
I will meet you just one minute 
By the oak-tree, you remember, 
With the grape-vine tangled in it— 
Meet you, while my bride is slee 
ing— | 
While the storm the stars is keeping. 
I will press your bosom gory— | 
I will tell you one sweet story, _ 
With sweet balm and healing in it. | 
But remember, now remember, 
I can stay there but one minute. 


gnu Exile 


IN 


Alone on this desolate border— 

| On this ruggedest, rim’d frontier, 
Where the hills huddle up in disorder 
Like a fold in mortal fear— 
Where the mountains are out at the 
! elbow, 

And their yellow coats seedy and 
| sere— 

/Where the riverruns sullen and yellow 
This dismalest day of the year. 


Igo up and down on the granite, 
Like an unholy ghost under bans. 

Oh, Christ! for the eloquent quiet! 
For the final folding of hands! 

What am I? Where am I going? 

 Tlook at the lizard that glides 

Over the mossy boulder 

With green epaulets on his sides. 


My feet are in dust to the ankles, 
|. My heart, it is dustier still; 
_ Will never the dust be levelled 
Till the heart is laid under the hill? 
“Why this yearning and longing? 
This dull desolation and void? 
Pussy cat seeking a corner? 

Alone! yet for ever annoyed? 


‘Tlook at the sun shining over, 
A cloud is swinging on hinges 
And is trying his glory to cover. 
But see! his beams in the fringes 
_ Are tangled and fastened in falling, 
And a sailor above us is calling 
“Untangle the ravels and fringes.” 


_In grim battle lines above us 
Gray, oarless ships are wheeling— 
A flash—a crash appalling— 

_ A burling of red-hot spears— 


4 


49 


EXILE 


Hark to the thunder calling 

In fierce infernal chorus. 

Now silver sails are falling 

Like silver sheens before us. 
What Nelson to fame aspires 
In the chartless bluer deep 
Where navies and armies track? 
Lo! I have seen their fires 

At night as they bivouac; 

And they battle, and bleed, and weep, 
For this rain is warm as tears. 


Oh! why was I ever a dreamer? 
Better a brute on the plain, 
Or one who believes his redeemer 
Is greed, and gold, and gain, 
Or one who can riot and revel, 
Than be pierced with intolerable 
pain 
Of poesy darling, in travail, 
That will not beborn from the brain. 


O bride by the breathing ocean 
With lustrous and brimming eye, 
Pour out the Lethean potion 
Till a lustrum rolleth by, 
Lulling a soul’s commotion, 
Plashing against the sky— 
Calming a living spectre 
With its two hands tossed on high. 


Are sea winds mild and mellow 
Where my sun-browned babies are, 
A-weaving silk and yellow 
Seamed sunbeams in their hair? 


Go on and on in disorder 
O cloud with the silver rim, 
While tangled up in your border 
The glinting sunbeams swim. 


50 To the Bards of S. F. Bap 


TO THE: BARDS: OF) S.. Pe BAY 


I am as one unlearned, uncouth, 

From country come to join the 
youth 

Of some sweet town in quest of truth; 
A skilless northern Nazarene— 

_ From whence no good can ever come. 

I stand apart as one that’s dumb. 

I hope—I fear—I hasten home. 
I plunge into my wilds again. 


I catch your dulcet symphonies, 
I drink the low sweet melodies 
That stream through these dark 
feathered trees 
Like echoes from some far church- 
bell, 
Or music on the water spilled 
Beneath the still moon’s holy spell, 
And life is sweeter—all is well— 
The soulisfed. The heart is filled. 


I move among these frowning firs, 
Black bats wheel by in rippled whirs, 
While naught else living breathes or 
stirs. 
I peep—I lift the boughs apart— 


MERINDA 


And this then is all of the sweet life 
she promised! 

And this then is all of the fair life I 
painted! 

Dead, ashen fruit, of the dark Dead 
Sea border! 

Ah yes, and worse by a thousand 
numbers, 

Since that can be cast away at willing, 


I tiptoe up—I try to rise— 

I strive to gaze into the eyes 

Of charmers charming thus so wise- 
I coin your faces on my heart. 


I greet you on your brown bent hil, 
Discoursing with the beaded rills, 
While over all the full moon spills | 
His flood in gorgeous plenilune. 
White. skilful hands sweep o’er tk 
strings, 
I heed as when a seraph sings, 
I learn to catch the whisperings, 
I list into the night’s sweet noon. 


I see you by the streaming strand, 
A singing sea-shell in each hand, | 
And silk locks tossing as you stand, 
And tangled in the toying breeze. 
And lo! the sea with salty tears, 
While white hands toss, then disat 
pear, 
Doth plead that you for years an 
years 
Will stay and sing unto the seas. 
| 


While desolate life with its dead hop 
buried 

Clings on to the clay, though th 
soul despise it. 


Back, backward, to-night, is memor, 
traversing, | 
Over the desert my weary fee 
travelled— | 


Thick with the wrecks of my dear 
heart-idols— 

And toppling columns of my ambi- 
| tion— 

Red with the best of my hot heart’s 
purple. 


Down under the hill and under the 


fir-tree, 

By the spring, and looking far out in 
the valley, 

(She stands as she stood in the glori- 
ous Olden, 

‘Swinging her hat in her right hand 
dimpled. 

The other hand toys with a honey- 

: suckle 

That has tiptoed up and tried to kiss 
her. 


Her dark hair is twining her neck and 


her temples 
Like tendrils some beautiful Parian 
marble. 


‘O eyes of lustre and love and passion! 


© radiant face with the sea-shell 


tinted! 


: White cloud with the sunbeams 


tangled in it!’ 


 Icried, as I stood in the dust beneath 


her, 

And gazed on the God my boy-heart 
worshipped 

With a love and a passion a part of 
madness. 

‘Dreamer,’ she said, and a tinge of 
displeasure 


~ Swept over her face that I should dis- 


turb her, - 


_ ‘All of the fair world is spread out 


before you: 


SHlerinda 


51 


Go down and possess it, with love 
and devotion, 

And heart ever tender and touching 
as woman’s, 

And life shall be sweet as the first 
kiss of morning.’ 


I turned down the pathway, blinded 
no longer; 

Another was coming, tall, manly, 
and bearded. 

I built me a shrine in the innermost 
temple— 

In the innermost rim of the red puls- 
ing heart 

And placed her therein, sole pos- 
sessor and priestess, 

And carved all her words on the walls 
of my heart. 


They say that he wooed her there 
under the fir-tree 

And won her one eve, when the katy- 
dids mocked her. 

Well, he may have a maiden and call 
her Merinda; 

But mine is the one that stands there 
for ever 

Leisurely swinging her hat by the 
ribbons. 


They say she is wedded. No, not my 
Merinda, 

For mine stands for ever there under 
the fir-tree 

Gazing and swinging her hat by the 
ribbons. 

They tell me her children reach up to 
my shoulder. 

’'Tis false. I did see her down under 
the fir-tree 


52 


When the stars were all busy a-weav- 
ing thin laces 

Out of their gold and the moon’s 
yellow tresses, 

Swinging her hat as in days of the 
Olden. 

True, I didn’t speak to or venture to 
touch her— 

Touch her! I sooner would pluck the 
sweet Mary, 

The mother of Jesus, from arms of 
the priesthood 

As they kneel at the altar in holy 
devotion. 


And was it for this that my heart was 
kept tender? 

Fashioned for thine, O 
maiden !— 

That coarse men could pierce my 
warm heart to the purple? 

That vandals could enter and burn 
out its freshness? 

That rude man could trample it into 
the ashes? / 

O was it for this that my heart was 
kept open? 


sacristan 


RMepenthe 


I looked in a glass, not the heart of 
man-mortal. 


Whose was the white soul I seen there 


reflecting? 
But trample the grape that the wine 
may flow freely! 


Beautiful priestess, mine, mine only, 
for ever! 

You still are secure. 
your temple. 

They never can find it, or pierce it, or 
touch it, 

Because in their hearts they know no 
such a temple. 


They know not 


I turn my back on them like Enos the 


Trojan. 

Much indeed leaving in wild desola- 
tion, 

But peeane one treasure alone that 
is dearer 

Than all they possess or have fiercely 
torn from me; 

A maiden that stands looking far 
far down the valley 


Swinging her hat by its long purple 


ribbons. 


NEPENTHE 


I have a world, a world which is all 
my own, 
Which you, nor foe, nor friend, nor 
kith, nor kin, 
Nor even my own fiery soul, when 
churlish grown, 
Has entered, or shall ever pass 
therein; 
But when all of care and strife aside 
are thrown 


And I am free, then I am there, and 


am not alone. 


No, not alone, for standing there in- ) 


viting me 
On the threshold is God’s image - 
made of pearl, 
And I relive the elden time with 
that purity— 


; 
| 


i 


_And both of us are wed? 


Hepenthe 


There with a queenly shrined and 
sainted girl, 
I press the green beneath the ancient 
tree, 
And vow the vows and redream the 
mystery. 


|What though the real did happen 


years ago! 
What though our lives are wide, 
and still diverge? 
Admit it’s 
so. 
Then sitting here to-night, will 
you, sir, urge 
We dare not live that past in all its 
glorious glow? 
Well! you may be good, but there 
are things you do not know. 


To-day I fight the manly pitted fight 


of life, 
I give back deftly hard dealt blow 
for blow, 
To-day is she the mother and the 
patient wife, 
Taking life a fact from fates that 
made it so; 
But lo! to-night I quit the struggling 
strife, 
She is young again, heart-full, and 
lips are rife. 


The long tilled turf is rich again and 


green— 
The long felled oak extends its 
hugest bough, 


af 


And we are there as lang syne we have 
been, 

Giving troth for troth, and plighting 
vow for vow— 

Holy vows for aye upon that belted 
green, 

Where no gray ghosts dare thrust 
themselves between. 


Yet in the morn, amid the reckless 
rush of life, 
First in the duties and foremost in 
the scene, 
She, the fond mother and most loyal 
wife— 
She the peerless of all that’s goodly 
will be seen; 
And girded, I shall marshal for the 
strife 
Without a thought of the glorious 
‘might have been.’ 


And you do star-ward point and bid 
me twine 
The hopes and promise round the 
crumbling heart. 
Well, I have tried, wept and watched 
to read the sign, 
But heaven, my friend,—nay, now, 
do not start— 
But heaven—my heaven at least, is in 
that sweet lang syne— 
There in that world so solely and so 
completely mine. 


54 Ander the Oaks 


UNDER THE OAKS 


Oaks of the voiceless ages! 
Precepts! Poems! Pages! 
Lessons! Leaves and volumes! 
Arches! Pillars! Columns 

In the corridors of ages! 
Grand patriarchal sages! 


Their Druid beards are drifting 
And shifting to and fro, 

Down to their waists in zephyrs, 
That bat-like come and go; 

The while the moon is sifting 

A sheen of shining snow 

On all these blossoms lifting 
Their blue eyes from below. 


The night has cast his mantle 
Down on the day’s remains; 

For he lies dead before us. 

I seen his red blood stains 

At twilight drifting o’er us 

And these oaks chant above him 
In stately, solemn strains, 


‘ The silver cord loosed, 
The golden bowl broken,’ 

The sunbeam has fallen, 
The Saviour has spoken. 


The yew and the cypress, 
By Lethe’s dark tide, 
Are sweeping to-day— 
A miner has died! 


‘The white sands have crumbled 
Away from his tread,’ 


For ah! these Druids love him, 
That knightly day that’s slain, 
And they will robe in sable 
Till he shall rise again. 


I have no tears or sighing, 

For he was not kind to me— 
This dead day here before us, 

O mossy Druid tree 

With dark brow bending o’er us! 
He was not kind to me, 

I will not wail his dying. 


No. It is not green leaves rustling 
That you hear lisping there, 

But bearded, mossy Druids 
Counting beads in prayer. 

No. Not a night-bird singing, 


Nor breeze a green bough swinging: 


But that bough holds a censer 
And swings it to and fro; 

’Tis Sunday eve, remember, 
That’s why they chant so low. 


DIRGE 


By eternity’s ocean— 
A miner is dead! 


His lamp has gone out; 
What else can be done 
Than lay him to sleep 
Till the light of the sun? 


Pine slabs! what of it? 
Marble is dust, 

Cold and as silent— 
And iron is rust. 


To those who have known my mad 

_ life’s troubles 

 Tleave these lines—’tis all I have to 

: leave 

Save faults and follies; the dreams 

| and bubbles 

_ Of my young life; and O I grieve 
In tears of blood I could not 

worthier weave. 


True, ’tis a farewell piece but poorly 
spoken, 
It is an adieu song but harshly 
sung; 
For the heart beats dull and the 
harp is broken, 
And the hand that o’er the fede is 
flung 
Is nerveless now, and the chords 
unstrung. 


The round red sun is set for me for 
ever, 
And nebulous darkness is rolling 
from afar; 


Wale 55 


VALE 


And I stand adown by death’s dark 
river 
Calmly and alone, for the thoughts 
that war 
Have died, or dimly burn, as yon 
sweet star. 


’Tis well I stand by the rushing river, 
Up to my knees in the blackened 
tide; 
The sounding waters will drown for 
ever 
The critic’s jeers and paynim 
pode 
And reviews are not ferried to the 
other side. 


So life is but a day of weary fretting 
Asasickly babe for its mother gone; 
And I fold my hands, only this 
regretting: 
That I have writ no thought, or 
thing, not one, 
That lives, or earns a cross or 
cryptic stone. 


ULTIME 


They tell me, ere the maple leaves 
grow brown once more, 
And the wild deer don their great 
overcoats of gray, 
That I must cross the stony threshold 
of death’s door, 
And leave this body like a pair of 
overalls worn a day 
’ Outside the hall, or hung on some 
nail out of the way. 
It seems odd, and yet I think, yea do 
know, I do feel 


As little fear as any trodden dust, or 
dull cold clay, 
To hear my Doc., Death’s clerk, and 
attorney for my weal, 
Say I am convicted and that there 
is no appeal. 


Yet, while I have no fear, I feel a 
touch of deep regret— 
Regrets that burn like red-hot iron 
in the soul, 


56 


That my day is but begun as my sun - 


is set. 
But there was that in my young 
life I could not control, 
And now, to-night, as recollections 
o’er me roll, 
I know no time that I loitered by the 
way; 
But with a proud eye fixed on a 
lofty goal, 
Pressed on, nor stopped, or turned 
aside a single day 
To rest, or toy with aught that in my 
rough route lay. 


And yet one time, but one, I do 
remember well, 

My life’s way lay by oaks, and 
talking streams, and flowers: 
And there were birds, and singing 

bees, and a holy spell 
Of dreamy wonder in the air and 
hallowed hours; 
And from afar fair maids did 
beckon from their bowers. 
I looked and loved. But lo! the 
leprous stain 
Of penury, that so much of life’s 
sweetness sours, 
Was mine, and I pushed on in peril 
and deep pain; 
Saying, Sweet scenes, when fame is 
mine we meet again. 


Toiling for ever, chasing a phantom 
hope to earn 
A place with men of mind and a 
moment’s peace; 
With the fevered soul on fire with 
thoughts that burn; 


Gltime 


And revelling in rainbow beauties 
that I could not seize, 

Or subdue, or reduce to shape or 
words; and these 

Did unfit me for the stormy struggle 

with the real. 

Vibrating like some insect pendent 
in the breeze 


Between these varied visions and my 


worldly weal 


I have gained neither the real nor the’ 


sweet ideal. 


Quoting Seneca, who wrote on his 


desk of gold: 
Dear sir! what is the use of wealth? 
you naively say. 
Sir! in your life’s craft with its well 
stocked hold, 
Your money is the white oak planig 
that lay 


Between you and the howling 


waves; these away, 
And you are in the sea without 
friends or a pretence, 


Then keep your head above the | 


water if you may. 


Besides, the days of Diogenes are 


over now, and hence 


Philosophers in tubs are kept at 


the State’s expense. 


None have known me, nor have I my- 


self the least part known 


Until prisoned here by him of the 


sable shore 


Till he can transport me to quarters 


of his own. 
Here I have reflected and ran my 
fierce life o’er. 


Altime 


Ah! truly, much indeed have I to 
deplore, 
Yet not one single act of malicious ill. 
I meant well in all. Who could 
have done more? 
And have I not tamed my hot and 
imperious will? 
Have I not made my impulsive heart 
| be still? so still! 
Why have I been pursued in this 
small, low way; 
Why have I been crossed in my 
every honest aim; 
‘From my childhood on, even down to 
this dark day? 
I claimed not much of men, and 
less, far less, of fame. 
‘Was it because I could not, or that 
I would not, tame 
And tone my cloud-born soul in sup- 
pliance to bow 
Me down to dolts, and knaves, and 
clowns, that did proclaim 
Them wise, and great, and good? 
Ah! even yet I trow 
My spirit lives. I would not, could 
not, I will not now. 


‘Know thyself!’ What had I to do 
with strife and war? 
I smote, then held him to my heart 
and wept until he died. 
And did I fear? this deep facial 
arrow’s scar, 
. And a list of lesser ones have aye 
the thought belied, 
And yet I do remember me I have 
turned aside 
To avoid the hart I had sought the 
| whole day long. 


37 


And why in stormy courts have I 
so zealous plied, 
And plead, dark-browed, and hurled 
invective strong, 
Then wept at night to think I might 
have done some wrong? 


‘Know thyself!’ Had I known less 
of strife and flint-like men— 
Had I been content to live on the 
leafy borders of the scene 
Communing with the neglected 
dwellers of the fern-grown glen, 
And glorious storm-stained peaks, 
with cloud-knit sheen, 
And sullen iron brows, and belts of 
boundless green, 
A peaceful, flowery path, content, I 
might have trod, 
And carolled melodies that per- 
chance might have been 
Read with love and a sweet delight. 
But I kiss the rod. 
I have done as best I knew. The 
rest is with my God. 


Come forward here to me, ye who 
have a fear of death, 
Come down, far down, even to the 
dark waves’ rim, 
And take my hand, and feel my calm, 
low breath 
How peaceful all! How still and 
sweet! The sight is dim, 
And dreamy as a distant sea. And 
melodies do swim 
Around us here as a far-off vesper’s 
holy hymn. 
This is death. With folded hands I 
wait and welcome him; 


58 


And yet a few, so few, were kind, I 
would live and be known, 

That their sweet deeds might be 
bread on the waters thrown. 


I go, I know not where, but know I 
will not die, 
And know I will be gainer going to 
that somewhere; 
For in that hereafter, afar beyond 
the bended sky, 
Bread and butter will not figure in 
the bill of fare, 
Nor will the soul be judged by 
what the flesh may wear. 
But with all my time my own, once 
in the dapple skies, 
I will collect my fancies now float- 
ing in the air 
And arrange them, a jewel set, that 
in a show-case lies 
And when you come will show you 
them in a sweet surprise. 


It was my boy-ambition to be read 
beyond the brine, 
But this you know was when life 
looked fair and tall, 
Erewhile this occidental rim was my 
dream’s confine, 
And now at last I make no claim 
to be read at all, 
And write with this wild hope, and 
e’en that is small, 
That when the last pick-axe lies rust- 
ing in the ravine, 
And its green bent hill-sides echo 
the shepherd’s call, 
Some curious wight will thumb this 
through, saying, ‘Well, I ween 


Altime 


He was not a poet, but yet, and yet, 


he might have been.’ 


Above all on this green earth a 
grumbler I do despise, 
Pouring o’er all a sea of tears and 
untimely groans, 
As if he alone had stood upon the 
bridge of sighs; 
And yet I wail. But mind you my 
murmurs and low moans, 
(Not heard till I am gone) are not 
of you, or Smith, or Jones, 
But fate. Good folks. The world 
the best I ever trod. 
Yet lapidaries tell of flaws in the 
fairest stones, 
And maybe after all, my crosses, my 
losses, and the rod, 


Are but rounds in a ladder leading me 


thus soon to God. 


But to conclude. Do not stick me 
down in the cold wet mud, 
As if I wished to hide, or was 
ashamed of what I had done, 
Or my friends wanted to plant me 
like an Irish spud. 
No, 
quarter of my life is run, 


when this the first shorts 


Let me ascend in clouds of smoke 


up to the sun. 


And as for these lines, they are all 


rough, wild-wood bouquet, 
Plucked from my mountains in the 
dusk of life, as one 


Without taste or time to select, or ~ 


put in good array 


Grasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the q 


brink, and hastes away. 


ate ee, 


= 
oS 
4 
4 
ea 
—_ 
wn 
= 
H 
py 
© 
apt 
a 
qi 
O 
op) 


59 


| 

Because the skies were blue, because 

The sun in fringes of the sea 

Was tangled, and delightfully 

Kept dancing on as in a waltz, 

And tropic trees bowed to the seas 

And bloomed and bore years through 
and through, 

And birds in blended gold and blue 

Were thick and sweet as swarming 
bees, 

And sang as if in Paradise 

And all that Paradise was spring— 

Did I too sing with lifted eyes, 

Because I could not choose but sing. 


With garments full of sea winds blown 

From isles beyond of spice and balm, 

Beside the sea, beneath her palm, 

She waits, as true as chiseled stone, 

My childhood’s child, my June in 
May, 


CHANT I 


ti 


Thai man who lives for self alone 
' Lives or the meanest mortal known. 


_ I celebrate no man of strife, 
_Leat no bread with blood upon. 


TO MAUD 


So wiser than thy father is, 

These lines, these leaves, and all of 
this 

Are thine—a loose,uncouth bouquet— 

So, wait and watch for sail or sign, 

A ship shall mount the hollow seas 

Blown to thy place of blossomed trees, 

And birds, and song, and summer- 
shine. 


I throw a kiss across the sea, 

I drink the winds as drinking wine, 

And dream they are all blown from 
thee— 

I catch the whispered kiss of thine. 

Shall I return with lifted face, 

Or head held down as in disgrace 

To hold thy two brown hands in 
mine? 


England, 1871 


WALKER IN NICARAGUA 


’Twere braver far to live unknown, 

To live alone and die alone 

Than owe sweet song, aye owe sweet 
life, 

Or sweeter fame, to saber drawn. 


II 


Wreathe ye who may the victor’s 
bay, 


od 


62 Walker in Micaraqua 


Fill book on book with battles, then 
Fill every public park you may 
With iron-fashioned fighting men 
Begirt with blade and cannon ball, 
With not one woman’s plinth mid all. 


But she who rocks the cradle, she 
Who croons and rocks all day, all 
night, 
And knows no public place or name 
Makes far the better, braver fight, 
Deserves a nobler, fairer fame 
Than all bronze men of historie. 


The foot that rocks the babe to 

rest 

Keeps step, keeps song with singing 
dawn. 

The hand that holds the babe to 
breast 

Is sceptered as King Solomon. 

And yet, for all she does, has done, 

Has not one monument, not one! 


Ill 
And he who guides the good plow- 
share, 
Binds golden sheaves, unnamed, 
unknown, 
Who harvests what his hand hath 
sown, 
Does more for God, for man, his 
own— 


Dares more than all mad heroes dare. 


IV 


And like to him the man who 
keeps 
Calm watch on Freedom’s outer wall, 


Who sees the great moon rise and fall 

Yet sleeps and rests and rests and 
sleeps— 

The man who knows, the man who 
sees 

God in the grass, God in the trees, 

Sees good in all, sees God in all— 

Gets more, gives more, does more 
true weal 

Than all your storied men of steel. 


V 


But nobler still the man who leads 
Far out the deadly firing line 
To hew the way, subdue, refine 
By dauntless and unselfish deeds; 
Who lays aside his student’s book 
And gathers up his knotted thews 
And, facing westward, hews and hews 
The way for plowshare,.pruning hook 
And scarce recks if he win or lose; 
Who sees white duty over all, 
Fair duty, halo-topt and tall, 
Far pointing where his pathway lies, 
And dares not falter, rest, repine, 
But forward, forward, wins and— 

dies. 


VI 
I sing this man who sought man’s 
good, 
Who fought for peace, unselfish 
fought, 


Who silent fell and murmured not, 
This man whom no man understood, 
This great man so well-nigh forgot, — 
This man who led, who faltered not, 
This student, soldier, president, 


Who chose the weaker side and sent 
‘Such spirit through his fearless few 
As only Khartoum Gordon knew. 


VII 


__ Ising those children of the sun 

Because I love them and because 

I would that you should love them, 

| too, 

As tenderly as he had done 

Ere Fate laid her cold finger to 

His bounding pulse and bade him 
pause. 


LL 


A man to love, a land to love; 
A land of gold, of sapphire seas, 
Such blue below, such blue above, 
Such fruits and ever-flowered trees— 
The fairest Eden-land that is, 
And I am joyed that it is his; 
He won it, holds, with dust-full 
| hands— 
This soldier born, born and not made, 
: Who scorned to make rude war a 
trade. 


IX 


A soldier born, let this be said 
_ Above my brave, dishonored dead; 
Iask no more, this is not much, 
Yet I disdain a colder touch 
. To memory as dear as his; 
For he was true as steel, or star, 
_And brave as Yuba’s grizzlies are, 
| Yet gentle as a panther is 


Walker in Picaraqua 63 


Mouthing her young in her first 
fierce kiss. 


Xx 


A dash of sadness in his air, 
Born, may be, of his over care, 
And may be, born of a despair 
In early love—I never knew; 

I question not, as many do, 

Of things as sacred as this is; 

I only know that he to me 

Was all a father, friend, could be; 

I sought to know no more than this 
Of history of him or his. 


A piercing eye, a princely air, 

A presence like a chevalier, 

Half angel and half Lucifer; 

Sombrero black, with plume of snow 

That swept his careless locks below; 

A red serape with bars of gold, _ 

All heedless falling, fold on fold, 

A sash of silk, where flashing swung 

A sword as swift as serpent’s tongue, 

In sheath of silver chased in gold; 

Great Spanish spurs with bells of 
steel 

That dash’d and dangled at the heel; 

A face of blended pride and pain, 

Of mingled pleading and disdain, 

With shades of glory and of grief— 

The famous filibuster chief 

Stood front his men among the trees 

That top the fierce Cordilleras, 

With bent arm arched above his 
brow ;— 

Stood still, he stands, a picture, 
now— 

Long gazing down his inland seas. 


64. Walker in Micaragua 


XI 


What strange, bearded 
men were these 

He led above his tropic seas! 

Men sometimes of uncommon birth, 

Men rich in stories all untold, 

Who boasted not, though more than 
bold, 

Blown from the four parts of the 
earth. 

Men mighty-thewed, as Sampson 
was, 

That had been kings in any cause, 

A remnant of the races past; 

Dark-browed, as if in iron cast, 

Broad-breasted as twin gates of 


strong, 


brass,— 

Men strangely brave and _ fiercely 
true, 

Who dared the West when giants 
were, 


Who erred, yet bravely dared to err— 
A remnant of that dauntless few 
Who held no crime or curse or vice 
As dark as that of cowardice; 
With blendings of the worst and best 
Of faults and virtues that have blest 
Or cursed or thrilled the human 
breast. 


XII 


They rode, a troop of bearded men, 
Rode two and two out from the town, 
And some were blonde and some were 

brown, 
And all as brave as Sioux; but when 
From warlike Leon south, the line 
That bound them in the laws of man 


Was passed, and peace stood mute 
behind 

And streamed a banner to the wind | 

The world knew not, there was a 
sign 

Of awe, of silence, rear and van. 


XIII 


Men thought who scarce had 
thought before; 
I heard the clang and clash of steel 
From sword at hand and spur at heel 
And iron feet, but nothing more. 


XIV 


Some thought of Texas, some of 
Maine, 
But one of wood-set Tennessee. 
And one of Avon thought, and one 
Thought of an isle beneath the sun, 
And one, a dusky son of Spain, 
Soft hummed his sefiorita’s air, 


Half laughed, shook back his heavy 
hair 

And then—he would not think again, 

And one of Wabash thought, and he 

Thought tenderly, thought tearfully; 

And one turned sadly to the Spree. 


XV 


Defeat meant something more than 
death; 
The world was ready, keen to smite, 
As stern and still beneath its ban 
With iron will and bated breath, 
Their hands against their fellow-man, 
They rode—each man an Ishmaelite. 


Walker tn 


XVI 


But when we topped the hills of 
pine, 

‘These men dismounted, doffed their 

| cares, 


‘Talk’d loud and laugh’d old love 


affairs, 
And on the grass took meat and wine, 
And never gave a thought again 


To land or life that lay behind, 
Or love, or care of any kind 
Beyond the present cross or pain. 


XVII 


And I, a waif of stormy seas, 


A child among such men as these, 
Was blown along this savage surf 


And rested with them on the turf, 
And took delight below the trees. 


XVIII 


I did not question, did not care 


To know the right or wrong. I saw 
- That savage freedom had a spell, 


And loved it more than word can tell. 


_ Isnapped my fingers at the law, 


And dared to laugh, and laughed to 


dare. 
XIX 


I bear my burden of the shame,— 


_ Ishun it not, and naught forget, 


However much I may regret; 
I claim some candor to my name, 


_ And courage cannot change or die,— 


Did they deserve to die? they died! 
Let justice then be satisfied, 
And as for me, why, what am I? 


5 


Picaraqua 


65 
XX 


The standing side by side till death, 
The dying for some wounded friend, 
The faith that failed not to the end, 
The strong endurance till the breath 
And body took their ways apart, 

I only know. I keep my trust. 
Their vices! earth has them by heart: 
Their virtues! they are with the dust. 


XXI 


How we descended, troop on troop, 

As wide-winged eagles downward 
swoop! 

How wound we through the fragrant 
wood, 

With all its broad boughs hung in 
green, 

With sweeping mosses trailed be- 
tween! 

How waked the spotted beasts of 
prey, 

Deep sleeping from the face of day, 

And dashed them, like a dashing 
flood, 

Down deep defile and densest wood! 


XXII 


What snakes! long, lithe and beau- 

tiful 

As green and graceful boughed 
bamboo. 

How they did twine them through 
and through 

Green boughs that hung red-fruited 
full! 

One, monster-sized, above me hung, 


66 Gialker in Nicaragua 


Close eyed me with his bright pink 
eyes, 

Then raised his folds, and swayed 
and swung, 

And licked like lightning his red 
tongue, 

Then oped his wide mouth with 
surprise; 

He writhed and curved and raised 
and lowered 

His folds, like liftings of the tide, 

Then sank so low I touched his side, 

As I rode by, with my boy’s sword. 

The trees shook hands high overhead, 

And bowed and intertwined across 

The narrow way, while leaves and 
moss 

And luscious fruit, gold-hued and red, 

Through all the canopy of green, 

Let not one sun-shaft shoot between. 


XXITI 


Birds hung and swung, green-robed 
and red, 
Or drooped in curved lines dreamily, 
Rainbows reversed, from tree to tree, 
Or sang low hanging overhead— 
Sang low, as if they sang and slept, 
Sang faint like some far waterfall, 
And took no note of us at all, 
Though nuts that in the way were 
spread 
Did crash and crackle where we stept. 


XXIV 


Wild lilies, tall as maidens are, 
As sweet of breath, as purely fair, 
As fair as faith, as true as truth, 
Fell thick before our iron tread, 


In fragrant sacrifice of ruth. 

Rich ripened fruit a fragrance shed 
And hung in hand-reach overhead, 
In nest of blossoms on the shoot, 
The very shoot that bore the fruit. 


XXV 


How ran lithe monkeys through 
the leaves! 
How rush’d they through, brown clad 
and blue, 
Like shuttles hurried through and 
through 
The threads a hasty weaver weaves! 
How quick they cast us fruits of gold, 
Then loosened hand and all foothold, 
And hung, limp, limber, as if dead, 
Hung low and listless overhead; 
And all the time with half-oped eyes — 
Bent full on us in mute surprise— 
Looked wisely too, as wise hens do 
That watch you with the head askew: 


XXVI 


The long day through, from blos- 
somed trees, 
There came the sweet song of sweet 
bees, 
With chorus tones of cockatoo 
That slid his beak along the bough 
And walked and talked and hung and — 
swung, | 
In crown of gold and coat of blue, 
The wisest fool that ever sung, 
Or wore a crown or held a tongue. 


XXVIII 


Oh! when we broke the somber — 
wood 


And pierced at last a sunny plain, 
Jow wild and still with wonder stood 
The proud mustangs with bannered 
mane 

And necks that never knew a rein, 
And nostrils lifted high, and blown, 
Fierce breathing as a hurricane: 

Yet by their leader held the while 

In solid column, square and file, 

And ranks more martial than our 
: own! 


XXVIII 


Some one above the common kind, 
Some one to look to, lean upon, 
May be, is much a woman’s mind; 
But it was mine, and I had drawn 
A rein beside the chief while we 
Rode down the mesa leisurely. 
Then he grew kind and questioned me 
Of kindred, home, and home affair, 
‘Of how I came to wander there, 
And had my father herds and land 
And men in hundreds at command? 


At which I, silent, shook my head, 
‘Then, timid, met his eyes and said: 
“Not so. Where sunny foothills run 

Down to the North Pacific sea, 
And where Willamette meets the sun 
In many angles, patiently 
‘My father tends some flocks of snow, 
_ And turns alone the mellow sod 
| And sows some fields not over broad, 
And mourns my long delay in vain, 
Nor bids one serve man come or go; 
While mother from her wheel or 
churn, 
_ And maybe from the milking shed, 


Walker tn 


Hicaragqua 67 


Oft lifts an humbled wearied head 
To watch and wish her boy’s return 
Across the camas’ blossomed plain.” 


XXIX 


He held his bent head very low, 
A sudden sadness in his air; 
Then reached and touched my yellow 
hair 
And tossed the long locks in his hand, 
Toyed with them, sudden let them go, 
Then thrummed about his saddle bow 
As thought ran swift across his face; 
Then turning instant in his place, 
He gave some short and quick com- 
mand. 
They brought the best steed of the 
band, 
They swung a carbine at my side, 
He bade me mount and by him ride, 
And from that hour to the end 
I never felt the need of friend. 


XXX 


Far in a wildest quinine wood 
We found a city old—so old 
Its very walls were turned to mould 
And stately trees upon them stood. 
No history has mentioned it, 
No map has given it a place; 
The last dim trace of tribe and race— 
The world’s forgetfulness is fit. 


XXXI 
It held one structure grand and 


moss’d, 
Mighty as any castle sung, 


Gas Walker in Micaragqua 


And old when oldest Ind was young, 

With threshold Christian never 
crossed; 

A temple builded to the sun, 

Along whose somber altar-stone 

Brown, bleeding virgins had been 
strown 

Like leaves, when leaves are crisp and 
dun, 

In ages ere the Sphynx was born, 

Or Babylon knew night, or morn. 


XXXII 


My chief swift up the marble stept— 

He ever led, through that wild land— 

When down the stones, with double 
hand 

To his machete, a Sun priest leapt. 

Hot bent to barter life for life, 

A Texan drave his Bowie knife 

Full through his thick and broad 
breast bone, 

And broke the point against the 
stone, 

The dark stone of the temple wall. 

I saw him loose all hold and fall 

Full length with head hung down the 
stone; 

I saw run down a ruddy flood 

Of smoking, pulsing human blood. 

Then from the dusk there crept a 
crone 

And kissed the gory hands and face, 

And smote herself. Then one by one 

Some dusk priests crept and did the 
same, 

Then bore the dead man from the 
place. 

Down darkened aisles the brown 
priests came, 


So picture-like, with sandaled feet 

And long, gray, dismal, grass-wove 
gowns, 

So like the pictures of old time, 

And stood all still and dark of frowns, 

At blood upon the stone and street. 

Stern men laid ready hand to sword 

And boldly spake some bitter word; 

But they were stubborn still and 
stood 

Fierce frowning as a winter wood, 

And mutt’ring something of the 
crime 

Of blood upon their temple stone, 

As if the first that it had known! 


XXXII 


We strode on through each massive 
door 
With clash of steel at heel, and with 
Some swords all red and ready drawn. 
I traced the sharp edge of my sword 
Along both marble wall and floor 
For crack or crevice; there was none. 
From one vast mount of marble stone 
The mighty temple had been cored 
By nut-brown children of the sun, 
When stars were newly bright and 
blithe 
Of song along the rim of dawn, 
A mighty marble monolith! 


CHANT II 
I 


So old, so new and yet how old : 
This forest's green, that mesa’s goldl 


Rank, wild oats, waving in wild 
strength— 


Calker in 


The lion’s tawny mane and length! 

Rank Artemesia, odorous 

And gray with bald antiquity— 

The rough arroyo swallowed us 

As we rode down by two, by three, 

The braying ass, the neighing stud— 

And now the mesa, broad and free; 

Tall cacti blooms, as tipt with blood: 

And here a burning bush, and there 

The red night-blooming cereus 

Kneeled low, as if saluting us— 

Kneeled as some red-robed monk at 
prayer, 

High up the gleaming steeps of snow 

Of Zacatecas, Mexico. 


To left such green wood, and such 

green! 

To right brown mesa, bald and bare: 

But where we rode, the two between— 

Such crimson, crimson everywhere! 

Aye, earth was gaily garmented; 

The great, green robe spread far 
away, 

So far no man would dare to say, 

And this great, green robe fringed 
with red, 

Lay trackless, lifeless as the dead. 

The yellow lion’s skin behind, 

The wild oats waving in the wind; 

But that dense, silent wold of death 

Drew not a breath, knew not a 
breath! ; 


II 


From Oro Yaré toward the sea 
Slow rounding down the river’s 
] source, 
Red men, brown men, foot, cavalry, 
We marched, a mottled, maniac 
force— 


Hicaraqua 69 . 

We rode so close to this dense wood 

So somber, silent, deep and lorn, 

That when at last we slow drew rein 

The heat was as a choking pain. 

The chief stood in his stirrups; stood 

With set lips lifted up in scorn 

To thus be baffled by a wood ’ 

And looked and looked that sultry 
morn: 

The while our allies looked away 

As if in dread to say or stay. 


Far, far afield from out the night 
Of silent blackness burst a cone 
Of comely fashion, marble white, 
And lone as God, as white and lone 
As God upon the great white throne. 


He beck’d some brown men, bade 
them say: 
Then slow, a sandaled, nude old man, 
As if not daring to say nay 
Began, fast pointing far away— 
Then two, then three, then all began. 


Tit 


Such stories as our allies said 

Of such strange people meshed and 
hid 

That drear, deep wilderness amid— 

Their very name they spoke with 
dread! 

They were not white men, brown 
men, red, 

Not Spanish blood, not native blood, 

Not Toltec, Aztec, but a race 

Of cruel men who claimed to trace 

Their fathers back beyond the flood— 

Beyond the time when they alone 

Took refuge on their rock-ribb’d cone. 


70 Walker in Nicaragua 


Such stories as our allies told 
Of gold, of river-beds of gold 
Far in that lost land’s wood-walled 
heart 
That lay below the comely cone 
As made our filibusters start 
And think of this and this alone: 
The while the silent chief looked down 
Upon their zeal with sullen frown. 


Such stories of red gold at morn 
When savage rivers, sudden born 
Of thunder, had swept on and on— 
Such seams of gold that lay upon 
White beds of quartz, bright as the 
sun 
When night and sudden storm were 
done: 
Free gold for all who deemed it fit 
To stoop, take up and husband it. 


Such stories as our allies told 
Of armlets, wristlets, wrought in gold 
So massive that the arms grew long 
And sinewy and over strong 
For battle from the very weight 
Of gold; of gold-wrought arrowheads, 
Of gold in shallow brooklet beds 
As plentiful as yellow corn 
Sown ere the blackbirds swoop at 

morn 

To storm the thrifty farmer’s gate: 


IV 


Such stories as our allies told 
Of how, in armored days of old, 
The Spaniard here had dared and 
died 
In all his splendid strength and pride, 
In maddened greed for this red gold: 


How, many times in after years, 

Troop after troop went forth again, 

The Spanish Don, the dauntless son, 

To dare the dread obsidian spears, 

The gold-wrought arrowheads like 
rain— 

But never one returned, not one! 


Such stories as our allies said 
Of tall, dusk women, garmented 
Like unto fairest flowered trees; 
Of busy. women, like to bees, 
Who chased the purple butterfly 
Far up the gray steeps of the sky 
And plucked his little silken nest 
To spin and weave the gorgeous vest, 
The yellow robe, raboso red: 


Such stories as our allies told 

Of temples builded to the sun, 

Of human sacrifice and how, 

Like stealthy panthers, even now, 

These beauteous, sultry, moonlight 
nights, 

Hard men steal down, just as of old, 

And seize fair maidens for their rites 

That this was why the land lay bare: 

Of flock or field or maiden fair, 

All up and down, for leagues away— 

That even now, this very day, 

Their yonder homeward trail was 
plain 

With little footprints made in pain: 

Torn feet that turn not back again. 


V 


You ask me what my chieftain 
said? 

He rarely said, he simply did. 

Dismounting where the lame feet led, 


Shut in as shuts a coffin lid, 

He chose his choicest at a sign 

And silent led right on and on; 
Right on all day, right on all night, 
And not one foot set left or right, 
And not one faltered yea or nay 

Or turned his head to see or say 
Until, at sudden burst of dawn, 

A smell of water was and then 
That ugly, growling bulldog drum! 
It turned the very leaves one side 
The while it howled, ‘“‘They come! 
They come!” 


VI 


And they, too, came, came as a 
blast 
Of twisting March winds, gust on 
gust, | 
Whirl red leaves, dead leaves, ashes, 
dust— 
A cyclone scarce could sweep so fast, 
Scant time to choose a friendly tree, 
Scarce time to drop a bended knee, 
To catch quick carbine to its place 
And fall hard fighting, face to face. 


‘Was ever such hot place of death! 

Scarce room was there to draw full 

breath: 

Red vines climbed up, green boughs 

| hung down, 

Red-pepsin, green-leaved rubber-tree, 

Black banyan in black density! 

I dared a precious second’s pause 

To choose my tree: I chose because 

Great ivy vines climbed high, climbed 
higher 

All crimson to its very crown— 

Elijah’s chariot of fire! 


Walker in Micaraqua a1 


VII 


Such tangle, jungle, who could 
stand? 

Such jungle, tangle, who could see? 
What need, indeed, to see when we 
Fell instant fighting, hand to hand? 
Long bamboo lances searched us out, 
Short javelins, with points of glass, 
Great arrowheads of gold, like hail! 
Ah! it had been a sorry rout 
Had each not held his narrow pass— 
With not one left to tell the tale. 


They fought in herd, they fell in 

heap, 

Rushed here, rushed there, like silly 
sheep, 

And met behind each blazing tree 

A double-barreled battery, 

A dozen deadly, leaden shot, 

Till suddenly the rush and din 

Of arrow, spear, lance, javelin, 

And all that frenzied host was not. 


VIII 


And yet, what scores could not 
retreat! 
’Twas pitiful! Spare me the pain, 
The hard, sad detail of the slain, 
The brave dead clutching to the loam 
As if to hold their ancient home 
Forever back from stranger feet! 


IX 


He dashed right on, but bade me 
stay; 
No time for parley or delay; 
He called his every man to come— 


V2 


As ever, he was still the first— 
His men were dying, dead of thirst: 
And then to drive the vantage home! 


x 


A little time, then such a shout! 
I knew the men then drank their fill, 
I felt their feasting, do not doubt, 
I smelled ripe plantains, rind of red 
And cored like unto yellow cream; 
I saw bananas bank the stream, 
Ripe mangoes hanging overhead— 
So dead with hunger, thirst! I seem 
To see them, breathe them, taste 

them still: 

To see men feasting to their fill, 
One hand the gun, red fruit in one, 
The swift, sweet water at their feet: 
And I shall see, shall feel them eat 
And drink and drink till life is done. 


I heard a cautious low-bird call. 
He came, and with him came just one: 
Canteen, machete, ripe mangoes, gun, 
And I must eat, drink, share with all. 


XI 


Just then a child, her sweet face red 

With blood, crept from a heap of 
dead. 

I leaned down, drew her to my knee, 
Bathed her sweet face, then hurriedly 
To where a dying comrade lay 
Beside his war-torn battle tree; 
And lo! the poor girl followed me 
And tried to help, to soothe, to say. 


The chief had chased the frenzied 
throng 


Walker in Hicaragua 


On o’er the stream a short half mile; 
Had watched it melt into the isle 
And then, as if ten thousand strong 
Stood at his back in bold guard line, 
Had placed his every man, save one— 
Then up and down, machete and gun, 
They paced and passed the counter- 
sign, 
And laughed their city, Chantalé, 
Laughed gold-strewn, gory Chantalé 
Dim seen through copse of banyan 
tree. 


And light of step, as jaunty, gay 
As on some happy holiday 
They stepped with head high in the 

air, 

And sang, sang loud and saucily. 
And now and then a shot rang out 
At interval of song and shout 
Tow’rd gold-strewn, gory Chantalé 
And tore through island vine and tree. 


XII 


Gods! what a dauntless, daring 
sight! A 
Why, these strange men had fought 
all day! 
Why, these strong men had marched 
all night; | 
Why, they had scarcely ate or slept, 
Yet still with saucy pride they stept 
And still each step was spank and 
gay. 


XIII 


Dusk came, such solemn, stately 
dusk! 


Black clouds blocked up a sky of red, 


The hot wood had a smell of musk— 
Of dying roses for the dead. 


Then lightning was, and thunder 
low, 

Low rumbling lion-like and slow, 
Then that dread drum began to beat 
A bow-shot front us amid the isle! 
Why, they had made a mad retreat— 
Were they not marshaling mean- 
while? 


XIV 


That bull-dog drum was like a chill; 

It made night monstrous; men stood 

: still 

And looked their brave chief in the 

face. 

Why, had God filled the fiery skies 

With thunder, lightning, had He 

: filled 

The earth with every fighting race 

That knows the ugly trade of death 

‘And asked their lives in sacrifice 

‘These men had scarcely cared a 
breath, 

Yet now they stood unnerved and 
chilled. 


~ Would it but miss a single note, 
Pause but to take a single breath, 
As any bull-dog’s breath is drawn, 
’Twere not so worse to bear than 
. death! 
But no, that belching bull-dog throat 
| Belched on, belched on, right on and 
on, 


XV 


He saw their dread then slowly 
said 


Walker in Micaragqua 


73 


“How many? and when will they 
come?”’ 

‘“Pass me the guard line, chief,” I 
said, 

‘‘Pass me the guard and you shall 
know 

What says, what means that chilling 
drum: 

Night gathers, and the ghostly dead 

Are not more noiseless where they go 

Than I shall go, go, come again; 

Or, silent, join the happier slain.” 


XVI 


He wrote, wrote calmly; they must 

feel 

His confidence, his nerve of steel, 

His sure possession to the last. 

I thrust the thin script down my boot, 

Stept back, stood firm, made slow 
salute, 

Turned on my heel and hastened past. 


XVII 


The dappled sky now darkened till 
The moon came out, and then was 
gone, 
And all was black and wild and wide. 
I should have lost my way and died 
Had not that drum beat on and on. 
The warm wave swept above my 
waist; 
I pushed right on in eager haste. 
I felt a light touch suddenly, 
Looked down in dread and lo! ’twas 
she. 


And how could she have passed 
the line? 


74 Walker in Micaraqua 


And why? I thought her surely crazed; 

Or, may be, sadly hurt and dazed, 

And took her little hand in mine. 

I led her up the shallow sand 

Against the somber, wooded land 

To where the mango, tamarind 

And black, wide-rooted banyan tree 

Reached out to warn and welcome 
me. 


I was so worn, so weak and worn, 
My dripping hands hung down as 
lead. 
I could not lift my sinking head; 
I heard the widowed mothers mourn, 
Still heard that hoarse dog bark and 
beat 
And knew they would not now 
retreat. 


XVIII 


And yet I could not lift a hand, 
But drooped and sank upon the sand. 
I tried, I tried, I could not rise, 

I could not open my dull eyes. 
And all the time that dog kept on, 
A dog that never would be gone! 


Jt made me sleep, it made me 

dream— 

That drum 
orchestra 

Where I could see sweet players play, 

Low-voiced; then sudden all did 
seem 

A coarse and cruel tragedy. 

Red lightning lit the ample stage; 

Black thunder thrust italics through 

The bloody text, then in his rage, 

As if not knowing what to do, 


seemed some deep 


Turned back and hewed with such 
mad stroke 
My mighty trees that I awoke. 


How I had slept! just clay and clod. 
For all the living, all the dead, 
The might, the majesty of God, 
The hideous, haunting death, the 
dread— 
I could but hear that monodin, 
That monster alligator skin 
Right on, right on, dog-like and deep, 
And sleep right on, and sleep and 
sleep! 


I thrust, thrust hard out either 
hand: 
And still, all chill! I was alone! 
And she had sold me, my command! 
At sun the sacrificial stone; 
And then no more that horrid drum— 
Why had she gone? where had she 
gone? | 
I tried to hope she yet might come— 
The while that drum beat on and on! 


A finger to her lip, then sand 
She plucked and let it sift and run 
And pointed sunward, ere the sun! 
So many? and they come so soon? 
The sky was spotted, rain and moon, 
But with the first cloud we were gone; 
The while that bull-dog barked right 
on! 


He waiting, leaned and caught her 

hand, 

She stooped, took up, let fall the sand, 

Then pointed sunward, ere the sun— 

A sign, and that brave, worn, guard 
line, 


Walker in Micaragua 75 


Swift, single file, still as the dead, 

They passed with mournful, martial 
tread, 

Paced back that midnight track 
again, 

A pietous line of blood and pain: 

Yet not one man there to repine, 

Not one impatient word, not one. 


XIX 


He paused, the last man to retreat, 
When all had silent passed the dead, 
He stood with bowed, uncovered 

head, 
Devoutest hero of defeat. 
And then he turned, hat still in hand, 
And bowed before her, low, so low 
He almost touched her sandaled feet, 
And gently beckoned she should go: 
She stirred not and he spake com- 
mand. 


I had not known she was so tall, 
Knew not that she was nobly born 
Until I saw her black eyes burn 
And instant take command of all 
In that long, sudden, sad return, 
So silent, drooping and forlorn. 


She beckoned him and he obeyed, 
Kneeled only as brave men can kneel, 
Up rose; and then the clank of steel, 
The eager clutching of a blade— 
And then the sullen tread and tread: 
That baying dog behind—the dead! 


XX 


She stripped the gold hoops from 
each hand, 


From wrists, from arms and nothing 
said, 

But laid them gently by the dead: 

Then beckoned quiet, quick com- 
mand. 


“Pass on, on, on, at any cost, 
Not one brief moment to be lost!”’ 
Then on, on, on, fast and more fast, 
And she, alone, the very last, 
Until, just at the break of day— 
Were ever bugle notes so clear? 
Was ever dinner-horn so dear? 
We heard, we heard our horses neigh! 
CHANT III 
I 
More marches through brown 
mesa, wood. 
More marches through too much 
blood, 
And then at last sweet inland seas. 
A city there, white-walled, and brown 
With age, in nest of orange trees; 
And this we won and many a town 
And rancho reaching up and down, 
Then rested long, sweet, sultry days 
Beneath the blossom’d orange trees, 
Made drowsy with the hum of bees, 
And drank in peace the south-sea 
breeze, 
Made sweet with sweeping bough of 
bays. 


he 


Aye, she was shy, so shy at first, 
And then, ere long, not over shy, 


76 Walker in Nicaragua 


Yet pure of soul and proudly chare. 
No love on earth has such an eye! 

No land there is, is bless’d or curs’d 
With such a limb or grace of face, 
Or gracious form or genial air! 

In all the bleak North-land not one 
Hath been so warm of soul to me 

As coldest soul by that warm sea, 
Reneath the bright, hot-centered sun. 


III 


No lands where northern ices are 
Approach, or even dare compare 
With warm loves born beneath the 

sun— 
The one so near, the one so far! 
The one the cold, white, steady star, 
The yellow, shifting sun the one. 


IV 


I grant you fond, I grant you fair, 
I grant you honor, trust and truth, 
And years as beautiful as youth, 
And many years beneath the sun, 
And faith as fixed as any star; 
But all the North-land hath not one 
So warm of soul as sun-maids are. 


V 


I was but in my boyhood then— 

Nor knew the coarse, hard ways of 
men. 

I count my fingers over so, 
And find it years and years ago; 
But I was tall and lithe and fair, 
With rippled tide of yellow hair, 
And prone to mellowness of heart, 
While she was tawny-red like wine, 


With black hair boundless as the 
night. | 

As for the rest, I learned my part, 

At least was apt, and willing quite 

To learn, to listen, and incline 

To teacher warm and wise as mine. 


VI 


O bright, bronzed maidens of the 

Sun! 

So fairer far to look upon 

Than curtains of King Solomon, 

Or Kedar’s tents, or any one, 

Or any thing beneath the Sun! 

What followed then? What has been 
done, 

And said, and writ, and read, and 
sung? 

What will be writ and read again, 

While love is life and life remain, 

While maids will heed and men hav 
tongue? 


Vil 


What followed then? But let that 
pass. | 
I hold one picture in my heart, 
Hung curtain’d, and not any part 
Of all its blood tint ever has 
Been looked upon by any one 
Beneath the broad, all-seeing sun. 


VIII 


Love well who will, love wise who 
can, 
But love, be loved, for God is love; 
Love pure, as cherubim above; 


@alker in Micaragqua 77 


ove maid, and hate not any man. 

it as sat we by orange tree, 

teneath the broad bough and grape- 
vine 

‘op-tangled in the tropic shine, 

‘lose face to face, close to the sea, 

ind full of the red-centered sun, 

Vith sweet sea-songs upon the soul, 

tolled melody on melody, 

is echoes of deep organ’s roll, 

ind love, nor question any one. 


IX 


If God is love, is love not God? 
\s high priests say, let prophets sing, 
Vithout reproach or reckoning; 
[his much I say, knees knit to sod, 
\nd low voice lifted, questioning. 


x 


Let hearts be pure, let love be true. 
‘kt lips be luscious, love be red, 
et earth in gold be garmented 
\nd tented in her tent of blue; 
‘et goodly rivers glide between 
[heir leaning willow walls of green, 
et all things be filled of the sun, 
And full of warm winds of the sea, 
And I beneath my vine and tree 
Take rest, nor war with any one; 
Then I will thank God with full 

cause, 

Jay this is well, is as it was. 


XI 
Let lips be red, for God has said 


Love is as one gold-garmented, 
And made them so for such a time, 


Therefore let lips be red, therefore 
Let love be ripe in ruddy prime, 

Let hope beat high, let hearts be true, 
And you be wise thereat, and you 
Drink deep and ask not any more. 


XII 
Let red lips lift, proud curl’d to 
kiss, 
And round limbs lean and lift and 
reach 


In love too passionate for speech, 
Too full of blessedness and bliss 

For anything but this and this; 

Let pure lips lean warm, kind to kiss; 
Swoon in sweet love, while all the air 
Is redolent with balm of trees, 

And mellow with the song of bees, 
While birds sit singing everywhere— 
And you will have not any more 
Than I in boyhood, by that shore | 
Of olives, had in years of yore. 


XIII 


Let men unclean think things 

unclean; 

I swear tip-toed, with lifted hand, 

That we were pure as sea-wash’d 
sand, 

That not one coarse thought came 
between; 

Believe or disbelieve who will, 

Unto the pure all things are pure, 

As for the rest, love can endure 

Alike your good will or your ill. 


XIV 


Aye, she was rich in blood and 
gold— 


78 Walker in Nicaragua 


More rich in love, grown over-bold 


From its own consciousness of 
strength. 
How warm! Oh, not for any cause 


Could I declare how warm she was, 
In her brown beauty and _ hair’s 
length. 


XV 


We loved in the sufficient sun, 
We lived in elements of fire, 
For love is fire, not fierce desire; 
Yet lived as pure as priest and nun. 


XVI 


We lay slow rocking by the bay 
In slim canoe beneath the crags 
Thick-topp’d with palms, like sweep- 

ing flags 
Between us and the burning day. 
The alligator’s head lay low 
Or lifted from his rich rank fern, 
And watch’d us and the tide by turn, 
As we slow cradled to and fro. 


XVII 


And slow we cradled on till night, 
And told the old tale, overtold, 
As misers in recounting gold 
Each time to take a new delight. 


XVIII 


With her pure passion-given grace 
She drew her warm self close to me; 
And her two brown hands on my 

knee, 
And her two black eyes in my face, 


She then grew sad and guessed at ill, 
And in the future seemed to see 
With woman’s ken and prophecy, 
Yet proffer’d her devotion still. 


XIX 


And plaintive so she gave a sign, 
A token cut of virgin gold, 
That all her tribe should ever hold 
Its wearer as some one divine, 
Nor touch him with unkindly hand. 
And I in turn gave her a blade, 
A dagger, worn as well by maid 
As man, in that hot-temper’d land. 


XX 


It had a massive silver hilt, 
It had a keen and cunning blade, 
A gift of chief and comrades made 
For blood at Rivas reckless spilt. 


XXI 


‘Show this,” said I, ‘‘too well ’tis 
known, 
And worth a hundred lifted spears, 
Should ill beset your sunny years; 
There is not one in Walker’s band, 
But at the sight of this alone, 
Will reach a brave and ready hand 
And make your right, or wrong, his 
own.”’ 


XXII 


Love while ’tis day; night cometh 
soon, . 
Wherein no man or maiden may; 
Love in the strong young prime of 
day; 7 


Walker in Nicaragua 79 


rink drunk with love in ripe red 
noon, 

ed noon of love and life and sun; 

fall in love’s light as in sunshine, 

rink in that sun as drinking wine, 

rink swift, nor question any one; 

or fortunes change, like man, or 
moon, 

nd wane like warm full day of June. 


XXIII 


Oh Love, so fair of promises, 

end here thy bow, blow here thy 
kiss, 

end here thy bow above the storm 

ut once, if only this once more! 

omes there no patient Christ to 
save, 

ouch and reanimate thy form 

ong three days dead and in the 
grave? 

ea, spread ye now thy silken net; 

nce fortunes change, turn and for- 
get, 

nce man must fall for some sharp 
sin, 

e thou the pit that I fall in; 

seek no safer fall than this. 


XXIV 


You lift your face to ask of her, 
his wine-hued woman, warm sun- 
meinaid; 

his wine-hued woman warm as 
- wine, 

9 purely and so surely mine, 

Tho loved, who dared, was not 
 afraid— 


Or Princess? Priestess? Prisoner? 
I never knew or sought to know; 

I cared not what she might have been; 
I only knew she was such queen 

As only death could overthrow. 


XXV 
Aye, lover, would you love with 
zest, 
Win, hold, and hold her fast and 
well? 


Believe, believe the best the best 

Though she have singed her skirts in 
hell! 

Hold not one doubt, house just this 
thought— 

That she is all in all you sought. 


I loved, loved purely, loved pro- 
found, 
I raised love’s temple, round by 
round. 
I built my temple heavens high, 
Then shut the door, and she and I[ 
Forgot all things, all things save one, 
Beneath the hot path of the sun. 


XXVI 


I would I could forget, and yet 

I would not to my death forget. 

I reared my temple to the sky, 

That glad full moon, and laughed 
that I 

Could toy with lightning, till I found, 

Like some poor fool who toys with 
fire, 

And counts him stronger than desire, 

My temple burning to the ground. 


80 
XXVII 


Aye, I had knelt, as priest might 
kneel 
Before his saint’s shrine, all that day; 
Had dared to count me strong as steel 
To stand for aye, clean, tall and 
white. 
Yet I broke in that very night, 
And stole shewbread and wine away. 


XXVIII 


I would forget that scene, that 
place, 
I would forget that pleading face, 
Yet hide it deepest in my heart, 
As coffin in the heart of earth— 
Alas! a heart so little worth— 
Locked iron doors and somber lid! 
Yea, I would have my shrine so hid, 
So sacred and so set apart, 
That only I might enter in, 
Each sleepless, penitential night, 
And, kneeling, burn my lorn love 
light 
To burn away my bitter sin. 


XXIX 


Love lifts on white wings to the 

gates 

Of Paradise and enters in: 

Lust has for wings two leaden weights 

That sink into the lake of sin. 

Lust squats, toad-like, his loathsome 
cell, 

Love seeks the light, on, on, above; 

Love is as God, as God is love, 

But lust is Lucifer in hell. 


Walker in Micaragua 


XXX 


Ills come not singly, birds of prey 
Flock not more closely on than they 
Ill comes disguised in many forms; 
Fair winds are but a prophecy 
Of foulest winds full soon to be— 
The brighter these, the blacker they 
The brightest night has darkest day 
And brightest days bring blackes 

storms. 


XXXI 


A land-lost sea with sable bredes, 

Save where some bastions still a1 
seen, : 

A river stealing through the reeds, 

Dark, silent, sinuous, serpentine, 

In sullen haste toward the sun— 

Such lonesome land, such lonesor 
sea, 

Such wine-hued women at the oar, 

In silent pairs along the shore! 

But not one man in sight, not one 

To draw machete or bear a gun. 


XXXII 


A shaft of flame, a lifted torch, 
Leaps sudden from this midland se 
As if to light the very porch 
Of God’s high house eternally. 

It drops its ashen embers slow 

And slantwise, like belated snow, 

On granite columns, gods of stone 

Hewn ere the gods of Baal we 
known. 


Galker in Nicaragua SI 


XXXII 

Some sweet brown hills, like 
Galilee, 

troup here or there this dark, still 
sea, 

ome costly woods, mahogany, 

ted cedar, like to Lebanon, 

groad olives, like Gethsemane; 

ut silence sits all things upon, 

\s in some dark, hushed house of 
death. 

Tou look behind, you would turn 
back, 

You question if you yet take breath. 

[he blackness of this silent sea _ 

's oiled and burnished ebony— 

The very silence turns to black. 


XXXIV 


The silence is as when your dead 
Lies waiting, candles foot and head, 
When mourners turn them slowly 

back 
With all their sad, sweet prayers 
said. 
The sea is black, the shore is black 
Below Granada’s storied steep, 
Save where red trumpet blossoms 
blow 
And trumpet, trumpet night and day, 
For brave brown soldiers far away 
In battle for this dreamful deep 
Where silent women come and go. 


XXXV 


Such wine-hued women! such soft 
eyes! 
What need one single word be said? 
6 


A fool might talk and talk all day, 
Talk, talk and talk until he dies, 
And yet, for all his hard, loud lies, 
Will never make one inch advance, 
Will never say, year and a day, 

So much as she in one warm glance. 


XXXVI 


I see sad mothers here and there 
Sit by and braid their heavy hair, 
The while they watch their babes at 

play. 
I note no fear, I hear no sigh, 
Not even hear a baby cry; 
But Oh! Madonna, mother, bride, 
Dark mourning with your ebon tide, 
My heart is with you here today, 
As yours is with him far away. 


XXXVII 


Yet is this sea not always so: 

I’ve seen him laughing in the sun, 

Seen soft brown wavelets leap and 
flow, 

Seen opal dimples come and go, 

Seen argent billows rise and run, 

Seen fleets of gay boats lifting, borne 

Along his leaping, laughing tide 

In all their semi-savage pride. 

But list! the sea, the shore, is black 

For those who passed and came not 
back— 

He mourns because his daughters 
mourn. 


XXXVITI 


Yon solitary cone of flame 
That lifts mid-sea to light the skies? 


82 GHalker in MPicaraqua 


I nothing know, scarce know the 
name, 

Of yon lost, buried town that lies 

Beneath its ashes, yet I know 

The story is, a pretty town, 

With people passing up and down, 

Lies just beyond, and deep, so deep 

That never plummet breaks its sleep. 


XX XIX 
And, too, the tale is we are dead 


And cast forth unto burning hell, 
While they, down there, live, laugh 


instead; 

That with them, down there, all is 
well, 

The while they dance all night, all 
day— 


While we are dead and cast in hell. 
GH 


Aye, idle talk, and yet the town 
Is there, and perfect, to this day. 
Row out, far out, and peer you down, 
A half mile down, some sultry noon, 
And see shapes passing up and down, 
As dancers dancing to a tune 
On some fair, happy day in May. 


X LI 


Aye, idle talk, and maybe these, 
The dancers, be but kelp adrift 
With undertow of under-seas— 
Strange under-seas that fall or lift 
And voiceless ever ebb and flow 
Beneath the burning crater’s plain 
Through unknown channels to the 

main; 


I only note the things I know 
And loved and lived long years ago. 


XLII 


Then came reverses to our arms; 
I saw the signal light’s alarms 
All night red-crescenting the bay. 
The foe poured down a flood nex 

day 

As strong as tides when tides are higt 
And drove us to the open sea, 
In such wild haste of flight that we 
Had hardly time to arm and fly. 


XLIII 


Far tossed upon the broadest sea, 
I lifted my two hands on high, 
With wild soul plashing to the sky, 
And cried, ‘‘O more than crowns t 
me, 
Farewell at last to love and thee!” 


I walked the deck, I kissed m 
hand . 

Back to the far and fading shore, 
And bent a knee as to implore, 
Until the last dark head of land 
Slid down behind the dimpled sea. 
At last I sank in troubled sleep, 
A very child, rocked by the deep, — 
Sad questioning the fate of her 
Before the cruel conqueror. 


XLIV 
The loss of comrades, power, place 


A city walled, cool, shaded ways, 
Cost me no care at all, somehow, 


CHalker in 


only saw her sad, sweet face, 
ind—I was younger then than now. 


XLV 


Red flashed the sun across the 
deck, 

low flapped the idle sail, and slow 
The black ship cradled to and fro. 
\far my city lay, a speck 
YE white against a line of blue; 
ard by, half-lounging on the deck, 
Jome comrades chatted, two by two. 
held a new-filled glass of wine, 
\nd with the mate talked as in play 
f fierce events of yesterday, 
To coax his light life into mine. 


XLVI 


He jerked the wheel, as slow he 

said, 

Low laughing with averted head, 

And so half sad: ‘‘You bet, they’ll 
fight; 

They followed in canim, canoe, 

A perfect fleet, that on the blue 

Lay dancing till the mid of night. 

Would you believe! one little cuss— 

(He turned his hard head slow side- 

wise 

And ’neath his hat-rim took the 
skies )— 

“Tn petticoats did follow us 

The livelong night, and at the dawn 

Her boat lay rocking in the lee, 

Scarce one short pistol-shot from me.”’ 

This said the mate, half mournfully, 

Then pecked at us; for he had drawn, 

By bright light heart and homely wit, 

A knot of men around the wheel, 


Micaraqua 


83 


Which he stood whirling like a reel, 
For the still ship reck’d not of it. 


XLVII 


‘And where’s she now?’”’ one care- 
less said, 
With eyes slow lifting to the brine, 
Swift swept the instant far by mine, 
The bronze mate listed, shook his 
head, 
Spirted a stream of ambier wide 


Across and over the ship side, 


Jerked at the wheel and slow replied: 

‘‘She had a dagger in her hand, 

She rose, she raised it, tried to 
stand, 

But fell, and so upset herself; 

Yet still the poor brown, pretty elf, 

Each time the long, light wave would 
toss 

And lift her form from out the sea, 

Would shake a sharp, bright blade at 
me, 

With rich hilt chased a cunning cross. 

At last she sank, but still the same 

She shook her dagger in the air, 

As if to still defy or dare, 

And sinking seemed to call your 
name.” 


XLVIII 


I let the wine glass crashing fall, 
I rushed across the deck, and all 
The sea I swept and swept again, 
With lifted hand, with eye and glass, 
But all was idle and in vain. 
I saw a red-billed sea bird pass, 
A petrel sweeping ’round and ’round, 
I heard the far, white sea-surf sound, 


84 Walker tt Micaraqua 


But no sign could I hear or see 
Of one so more than all to me. 


XLIX 


I cursed the ship, the shore, the sea, 
The brave brown mate, the bearded 
men; 
I had a fever then, and then 
Ship, shore and sea were one to me: 
And weeks we on the dead waves lay, 
And I more truly dead than they. 


ie 


At last some rested on an isle; 
The few strong-breasted, with a smile, 
Returning to the hostile shore, 
Scarce counting of the pain or cost, 
Scarce recking if they won or lost; 
They sought but action, asked no 

more; 
They counted life but as a game, 
With full per cent against them, and 
Staked all upon a single hand, 
And lost or won, content the same. 


LI 


I never saw my chief again, 
I never sought again the shore, 
Or saw the wood-walled city more. 
I could not bear the more than pain 
At sight of blossom’d orange trees, 
Or blended song of birds and bees, 
The sweeping shadows of the palm 
Or spicy breath of bay and balm. 


LIT 


And, striving to forget the while, 
I wandered through a dreary isle, 


Here black with juniper, and there 

Made white with goats in shagg 
coats, 

The only things that anywhere 

We found with life in all the land, 

Save birds that ran, long-bill’d an 
brown, 

Long-legg’d and still as shadow 
are, 

Like dancing shadows, up and down 

The sea-rim on the swelt’ring sand. 


LIIl 


The warm sea laid his dimpled face 
With all his white locks smoothed it 
place, 
As if asleep against the land; 
Great turtles slept upon his breast, 
As thick as eggs in any nest; 
I could have touched them with my 
hand. 


LIV 


I would some things were dead and 
hid, 

Well dead and buried deep as hell, 
With recollection dead as well, 
And resurrection God-forbid. 
They irk me with their weary spell 
Of fascination, eye to eye, 
And hot, mesmeric, serpent-hiss, 
Through all the dull, eternal days. 
Let them turn by, go on their ways, 
Let them depart or let me die; 
For life is but a beggar’s lie, 
And as for death, I grin at it; 
I do not care one whiff or whit 
Whether it be or that or this. 


Walker it Micaragua 85 


LV 


I give my hand; the world is wide; 
Then farewell, memories of yore! 
Between us let strife be no more; 
Turn as you choose to either side; 
Say Fare-you-well, shake hands and 

say— 
Speak fair, and say with stately grace, 
Hand clutching hand, face bent to 
face— 
Farewell, forever and a day! 


LVI 


O passion-toss’d and pitegus past, 
Part now, part well, part wide apart, 
As ever ships on ocean slid 
Down, down the sea, hull, sail and 

mast; 
And in the album of your heart 
Let hide the pictures of your face, 
With other pictures in their place, 
Slid over, like a coffin’s lid. 


LVII 


The days and grass grow long to- 
gether; 
They now fell short and crisp again, 
And all the fair face of the main 
Grew dark and wrinkled as the 
weather. 
Through all the summer sun’s decline 
Fell news of triumphs and defeats, 
Of hard advances, hot retreats— 
Then days and days and not a line. 


LVIII 


At last one night they came. I 
knew, 


Ere yet the boat had touched the 
land, 

That all was lost; they were so few 

I near could count them on one hand; 

But he, the leader, led no more. 

The proud chief still disdained to fly, 

But like one wrecked, clung to the 
shore, 

And struggled on, and struggling fell 

From power to a prison cell, 

And only left that cell to die. 


LIX 


My recollection, like a ghost, 
Goes from this sea to that sea-side, 
Goes and returns, as turns the tide, 
Then turns again unto the coast. 

I know not which I mourn the most, 
My chief or my unwedded wife. 

The one was as the lordly sun, 

To joy in, bask in and admire; 

The twilight star was as the one 

To love, to look to and desire, 

And both a part of my young life. 


LX 


Sethe ye COR Be ae REN) ar 


Years after, sheltered from the sun 

Beneath a Sacramento bay, 

A black Muchacho by me lay 

Along the long grass crisp and dun, 

His brown mule browsing by his side, 

And told with all a peon’s pride 

How he once fought; how long and 
well, 

Brave breast to breast, red hand to 
hand, 

Against a foe for his fair land, 

And how the fierce invader fell; 


86 Walker in Micaraqua 


And, artless, told me how he died; 

How walked he from the prison-wall, 

Serene, prince-like, as for parade, 

And made no note of man or maid, 

But gazed out calmly over all— 

How looked he far, half paused, and 
then 

Above the mottled sea of men 

Slow kissed his thin hand to the sun; 

Then smiled so proudly none had 
known 

But he was stepping to a throne. 


LXI 


A nude brown beggar Peon child, 
Encouraged as the captive smiled, 
Looked up, half scared, half pitying; 
He stopped, he caught it from the 
sand, 

Put bright coins in its two brown 
hands, 

Then strode on like another king. 


LXII 


Two deep, a musket’s length they 
stood 

Afront, in sandals, grim and dun 
As death and darkness wove in one, 
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood. 
He took each black hand, one by one, 
And, bowing with a patient grace, 
Forgave them all and took his place. 


LXIII 


He bared his’ broad brow 
pleasantly, 


Gave one long, last look to the sky, 


The white-winged clouds that hurriex 
by, 

The olive hills in orange hue; 

A last list to the cockatoo 

That hung by beak from mango 
bough 

Hard by and hung and cried a 
though 

He never was to call again, 

Hung all red-crowned and robed it 


green, 
With belts of gold and blue be 

tween.— 

* ** * * * * 

* * k * * * 


A bow, a touch of heart, a pall 
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud, 
A warrior’s raiment rolled in blood, 
A face in dust and—that was all. 


Success had made him more thar 
king; 
Defeat made him the vilest thing 
In name, contempt or hate can bring 
So much the leaden dice of war 
Do make or mar of character. 


LXIV 


Speak ill who will of him, he died 

In all disgrace, say of the dead 

His heart was black, his hands were 
red— 

Say this much and be satisfied; 

Gloat over it all undenied. 

I simply say he was my friend 

When strong of hand and fair of 
fame: 


- Dead and disgraced, I stand the same 


To him, and so shall to the end. 


Walker in Micaraqua 


LXV 


I lay this crude wreath on his dust, 
ywove with sad, sweet memories 
ecall’d here by these colder seas. 
leave the wild bird with his trust, 
‘0 sing and say him nothing wrong; 
wake no rivalry of song. 


LXVI 


He lies low in the level’d sand, 
Inshelter’d from the tropic sun, 
ind now, of all he knew, not one 
Vill speak him fair in that far land. 
erhaps ‘twas this that made me 

seek, 

Jisguised, his grave one winter-tide, 
\ weakness for the weaker side, 
\ siding with the helpless weak. 


LXVII 


His warm Hondurian seas are 
warm, 

Warm to the heart, warm all the time; 
Huge sea-beasts wallow in their slime 
And slide, claw foot and serpent form, 
Slow down the bank, and bellow deep 
And pitiful, as if it were 

A very pain to even stir, 

So close akin to death they keep. 


LXVIII 


The low sea bank is worn and torn, 
All things seem old, so very old; 
All things are gray with moss and 
mould, 
The very seas seem old and worn. 


87 


Life scarce bides here in any form, 
The very winds wake not nor say, 
But sleep all night and sleep all day 
Nor even dream of stress or storm. 


LXIX 


The Carib sea comes in so slow! 
It stays and stays, as loath to go, 
A sense of death is in the air, 
A sense of listless, dull despair, 
As if Truxillo, land and tide, 
And all things, died when Walker 
died. 


LXX 


A palm not far held out a hand, 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung, 
And bent like some great bow un- 

strung, 
And quiver’d like a willow wand; 
Perched on its fruit that crooked 
hang, 
Beneath a broad banana’s leaf, 
A bird in rainbow splendor sang 
A low, sad song of temper’d grief. 


LXXI 


No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, 
But at his side a cactus green 
Upheld its lances long and keen; 

It stood in sacred sands alone, 

Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted 
spears; 

One bloom of crimson crowned its 
head, 

A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 

Yet redolent as roses’ tears. 


88 The Cale of the Tall Alcalde 


LXXII 


in my left hand I held a shell, 
All rosy-lipp’d and pearly red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed, 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of his solemn sea. 
O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, 
When storms blow loud and birds be 
still, 
The wildest sea-song known to thee! 


LXXIII 


I said some things with folde 
hands, 

Soft whisper’d in the dim sea-sound 
And eyes held humbly to the grounc 
And frail knees sunken in the sands 
He had done more than this for me, 
And yet I could not well do more; 
I turned me down the olive shore, 
And set a sad face to the sea. 


THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE 


Shadows that shroud the tomorrow, 
Glists from the life that’s within, 
Traces of pain and of sorrow, 
And maybe a trace of sin, 
Reachings for God in the darkness, 
And for—what should have been. 


Stains from the gall and the worm- 
wood, 
Memortes bitter like myrrh, 
A sad brown face in a fir wood, 
Blotches of heart's blood here, 
But never the sound of a wailing, 
Never the sign of a tear. 


Where mountains repose in their blue- 


ness, 
Where the sun first lands in his 
newness, 
And marshals his beams and _ his 
lances, 


Ere down to the vale he advances 

With visor erect, and rides swiftly 

On the terrible night in his way, 

And slays him, and, dauntless and 
deftly, 


Hews out the beautiful day 

With his flashing sword of silver,—_ 

Lay nestled the town of Renalda, 

Far famed for its stately Alcalde, 

The iron judge of the mountait 
mine, 

With heart like the heart of woman, 

Humanity more than human;— 

Far famed for its gold and silver, 

Fair maids and its mountain wine. 


* * * * * * 


The feast was full and the guest 


afire, 

The shaven priest and the portly 
squire, 

The solemn judge and the smiling 
dandy, ; 

The duke and the don and th 
commandante, 


All, save one, shouted or sang divine, 
Sailing in one great sea of wine; 


Till roused, red-crested knight 
Chanticleer 

Answer’d and echo'd their song and 
cheer, 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 89 


Some boasted of broil, encounter 
in battle, 
Some boasted of maidens most clever- 
ly won, 
Boasted of duels most valiantly 
done, 
Of leagues of land and of herds of 
cattle, 
These men at the feast up in fair 
Renalda. 
All boasted but one, the calm Al- 
calde: 
Though hard they press’d from first 
of the feast, 
Press’d commandanté, press’d poet 
and priest, 
And steadily still an attorney press’d, 
With lifted glass and his face aglow, 
Heedless of host and careless of 
guest— 
“A tale! the tale of your life, so 
ho! 
For not one man in all Mexico 
Can trace your history two decade.”’ 
A hand on the rude one’s lip was 
laid: 
“Sacred, my son,” the priest went 
on, 
“Sacred the secrets of every one, 
Inviolate as an altar-stone. 
Yet what in the life of one who must 
Have lived a life that is half divine— 
Have been so pure to be so just, 
What can there be, O advocate, 
In the life of one so desolate 
Of luck with matron, or love with 
| maid, 
Midnight revel or escapade, 
To stir the wonder of men at wine? 
But should the Alcalde choose, you 
know,’’— 


(And here his voice fell soft and low, 

As he set his wine-horn in its place, 

And look’d in the judge’s care-worn 
face)— 

“To weave us a tale that points a 
moral 

Out of his vivid imagination, 

Of lass or of love, or lover’s quarrel, 

Naught of his fame or name or 
station 

Shall lose in luster by its relation.” 


Softly the judge set down his 

horn, 

Kindly look’d on the priest all 
shorn, 

And gazed in the eyes of the advocate 

With a touch of pity, but none of 
hate; 

Then look’d he down in the brimming 
horn, 

Half defiant and half forlorn. 


Wasitatear? Wasita sigh? 

Was it a glance of the priest’s black 
eye? 

Or was it the drunken revel-cry 

That smote the rock of his frozen 
heart 

And forced his pallid lips apart? 

Or was it the weakness like to 
woman 

Yearning for sympathy 

Through the dark years, 

Spurning the secrecy, 

Burning for tears, 

Proving him human,— 

As he said to the men of the silver 
mine, 

With their eyes held up as to one 
divine, 


90 The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


With his eyes held down to his un- 
touch’d wine: 


“It might have been where moon- 
beams kneel 

At night beside some rugged steep; 

It might have been where breakers 
reel, 

Or mild waves cradle men to sleep; 

It might have been in peaceful life, 

Or mad tumult and storm and 
strife, 

I drew my breath; it matters not. 

A silvered head, a sweetest cot, 

A sea of tamarack and pine, 

A peaceful stream, a balmy clime, 

A cloudless sky, a sister’s smile, 

A mother’s love that sturdy Time 

Has strengthen’d as he strengthens 
wine, 

Are mine, are with me all the while, 

Are hung in memory’s sounding 
halls, 

Are graven on her glowing walls. 

But rage, nor rack, nor wrath of 


man, 

Nor prayer of priest, nor price, nor 
ban 

Can wring from me their place or 
name, 


Or why, or when, or whence I came; 
Or why I left that childhood home, 
A child of form yet old of soul, 


And sought the wilds where tempests 


roll 
O’er snow peaks white as driven 
foam. 


‘Mistaken and misunderstood, 
I sought a deeper wild and wood. 
A girlish form, a childish face, 


A wild waif drifting from place te 
place. 


‘Oh for the skies of rolling blue, 
The balmy hours when lovers woo, 
When the moon is doubled as in 

desire, 
And the lone bird cries in his crest of 
fire, ‘ 
Like vespers calling the soul to bliss 
In the blessed love of the life above, 
Ere it has taken the stains of this! 


“The world afar, yet at my feet, 

Went steadily and sternly on; 

I almost fancied I could meet 

The crush and bustle of the street, 

When from my mountain I look’d 
down. 

And deep down 
mouth 

The long-tom ran and pick-ax rang, 

And pack-trains coming from the 
south 

Went stringing round the mountain 
high 

In long gray lines, as wild geese fly, 

While mul’teers shouted hoarse and 
high, 

And dusty, dusky, mul’teers sang— _ 

‘Sefiora with the liquid eye! ; 

No floods can ever quench the flame, 

Or frozen snows my passion tame, 

O Juanna with the coalblack eye! 

O sefiorita, bide a bye!’ 


in the cafon’s 


‘‘Environed by a mountain wall, 
That caped in snowy turrets stood; 
So fierce, so terrible, so tall, 

It never yet had been defiled 
By track or trail, save by the wild 


?ree children of the wildest wood; 

\n unkiss’d virgin at my feet, 

vay my pure, hallow’d, dreamy vale, 

Where breathed the essence of my 
tale; 

Lone dimple in the mountain’s face, 

Lone Eden in a boundless waste— 

{t lay so beautiful! so sweet! 


“There in the sun’s decline I 
stood 

By God’s form wrought in pink and 

pearl, 

My peerless, dark-eyed Indian girl, 

And gazed out from a fringe of 

wood, 

With full-fed soul and feasting 
eyes, 

Upon an earthly paradise. 

Inclining to the south it lay, 

And long league’s southward roll’d 

away, 

Until the sable-feather’d pines 

And tangled boughs and amorous 
| vines 
‘Closed like besiegers on the scene, 

The while the stream that inter- 
twined 
Had barely room to flow between. 
‘It was unlike all other streams, 

Save those seen in sweet summer 

dreams; 

For sleeping in its bed of snow, 

Nor rock or stone was ever known, 
But only shining, shifting sands, 
Forever sifted by unseen hands. 

It curved, it bent like Indian bow, 

And like an arrow darted through, 
Yet uttered not a sound nor breath, 
Nor broke a ripple from the start; 
It was as swift, as still as death, 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde gl 


Yet was so clear, so pure, so sweet, 
It wound its way into your heart 
As through the grasses at your feet. 


“Once through the tall untangled 
grass, 
I saw two black bears careless pass, 
And in the twilight turn to play; 
I caught my rifle to my face, 
She raised her hand with quiet 
grace 
And said: ‘Not so, for us the day, 
The night belongs to such as they.’”’ 


“And then from out the shadow’d 


wood 

The antler’d deer came stalking 
down 

In half a shot of where I stood; 

Then stopp’d and stamp’d im- 
patiently, 

Then shook his head and antlers 
high, 

And then his keen horns backward 
threw 

Upon his shoulders broad and 
brown, 


And thrust his muzzle in the air, 

Snuff’'d proudly; then a blast he 
blew 

As if to say: ‘No danger there,’ 

And then from out the sable wood 

His mate and two sweet dappled 
fawns 

Stole forth, and by the monarch 
stood, 

Such bronzes, as on kingly lawns; 

Or seen in picture, read in tale. 

Then he, as if to reassure 

The timid, trembling and demure, 

Again his antlers backward threw, 


92 The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


Again a blast defiant blew, 
Then led them proudly down the 
vale. 


“T watch’d the forms of darkness 


come 
Slow stealing from their sylvan 
home, 
And pierce the sunlight drooping 
low 


And weary, as if loth to go. 

Night stain’d the lances as he bled, 

And, bleeding and pursued, he fled 

Across the vale into the wood. 

I saw the tall grass bend its head 

Beneath the stately martial tread 

Of Shades, pursuer and pursued. 
“Behold the clouds,’ Winnema 

said, 

‘All purple with the blood of day; 

The night has conquer’d in the fray, 

The shadows live, and light is dead.’ 


“She turn’d to Shasta gracefully, 
Around whose hoar and mighty head 
Still roll’d a sunset sea of red, 

While troops of clouds a_ space 
below 

Were drifting wearily and slow, 

As seeking shelter for the night 

Like weary sea-birds in their flight; 

Then curved her right arm gracefully 

Above her brow, and bow’d her 
knee, 

And chanted in an unknown tongue 

Words sweeter than were ever sung. 


“And what means this?’ I gently 
said. 
‘I prayed to God, the Yopitone, 


Who dwells on yonder snowy throne, 

She softly said with drooping head; 

‘I bow’d to God. He heard m 
prayer, 

I felt his warm breath in my hair, 

He heard me all my wishes tell, 

For God is good, and all is well.’ 


“The dappled and the dimple 
skies, 
The timid stars, the spotted moon, 
All smiled as sweet as sun at noon. 
Her eyes were like the rabbit’s eyes, 
Her mien, her manner, just as mild, 
And though a savage war-chief’ 
child, 
She would not harm the lowlies 
worm. 
And, though her beaded foot wa: 
firm, 
And though her airy step was true, 
She would not crush a drop of dew. 


“Her love was deeper than the 
sea, 

And stronger than the tidal rise, 
And clung in all its strength to me. 
A face like hers is never seen 
This side the gates of paradise, 
Save in some Indian Summer scene, 
And then none ever sees it twice— 
Is seen but once, and seen no more, 
Seen but to tempt the skeptic soul, 
And show a sample of the whole 
That Heaven has in store. 


“You might have plucked bear 
from the moon, 
Or torn the shadow from the pine 
When on its dial track at noon, 
But not have parted us one hour, 


The Wale of the Tall Alcalde 93 


She was so wholly, truly mine. 

And life was one unbroken dream 

Mf purest bliss and calm delight, 

A flow’ry-shored, untroubled stream 
of sun and song, of shade and bower 
A full-moon’d serenading night. 


“Sweet melodies were in the air, 
And tame birds caroll’d everywhere. 
[listened to the lisping grove 
And cooing pink-eyed turtle dove, 
[loved her with the holiest love; 
Believing with a brave belief 
That everything beneath the skies 
Was beautiful and born to love, 
That man had but to love, believe, 
And earth would be a paradise 
As beautiful as that above. 

My goddess, Beauty, I adored, 

Devoutly, fervid, her alone; 

My Priestess, Love, unceasing 
pour’d 

Pure incense on her altar-stone. 


“T carved my name in coarse 
design 
Once on a birch down by the way, 
At which she gazed, as she would 
say, 
‘What does this say? What is this 
sign?’ 
And when I gaily said, ‘Some day 
Some one will come and read my 
name, 
And I will live in song and fame, 
Entwined with many a mountain 
tale, 
As he who first found this sweet 
vale, 
And they will give the place my 
name,’ 


She was most sad, and troubled 
much, 

And looked in silence far away; 

Then started trembling from my 
touch, 

And when she turn’d her face again, 

I read unutterable pain. 


‘“ At last she answered through her 


tears, 

‘Ah! yes; this, too, foretells my 
fears: 

Yes, they will come—my race must 
go 


As fades a vernal fall of snow; 

And you be known, and I forgot 

Like these brown leaves that rust and 
rot 

Beneath my feet; and it is well: 

I do not seek to thrust my name 

On those who here, hereafter, dwell, 

Because I have before them dwelt; 

They too will have their tales to tell, 

They too will have their time and 
fame. 


‘**Ves, they will come, come even 

now; 

The dim ghosts on yon mountain's 
brow, 

Gray Fathers of my tribe and race, 

Do beckon to us from their place, 

And hurl red arrows through the air 

At night, to bid our braves beware. 

A footprint by the clear McCloud, 

Unlike aught ever seen before, 

Is seen. The crash of rifles loud, 

Is heard along its farther shore.’ 


‘“‘What tall and tawny men were 
these, 


94 The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


As somber, silent, as the trees 

They moved among! and sad some 
way 

With temper’d sadness, ever they,— 

Yet not with sorrow born of fear. 

The shadow of their destinies 

They saw approaching year by year, 

And murmur’d not. They saw the 
sun 

Go down; they saw the peaceful 
moon 

Move on in silence to her rest, 

Saw white streams winding to the 
west; 

And thus they knew that oversoon, 

Somehow, somewhere, for every one 

Was rest beyond the setting sun. 

They knew not, never dream’d of 
doubt, 

But turn’d to death as to a sleep, 

And died with eager hands held out 

To reaching hands beyond the 
deep,— 

And died with choicest bow at hand, 

And quiver full, and arrow drawn 

For use, when sweet tomorrow’s 
dawn 

Should waken in the Spirit Land. 


“What wonder that I linger’d 

there 

With Nature’s children! 
part 

- With those that met me heart to 
heart, 

And made tne welcome, spoke me 
fair, 

Were first of all that understood 

My waywardness from others’ ways, 

My worship of the true and good, 

And earnest love of Nature’s God? 


Could I 


Go court the mountains in tI 
clouds, 

And clashing thunder, and tl 
shrouds 


Of tempests, and eternal shocks, 

And fast and pray as one of old 

In earnestness, and ye shall hold 

The mysteries; shall hold the rod 

That passes seas, that smites tl 
rocks 

Where streams of melody and song 

Shall run as white streams rush ar 
flow 

Down from the mountains’ crests 
snow, 

Forever, to a thirsting throng. 


‘‘Between the white man and t] 
red 
There lies no 
ground. 
I heard afar the thunder sound 
That soon should burst above n 
head, 
And made my choice; I laid n 
plan, 
And childlike chose the weaker sid 
And ever have, and ever will, 
While might is wrong and wron 
remain, 
As careless of the world as I 
Am careless of a cloudless sky. 
With wayward and romantic joy 
I gave my pledge like any boy, 
But kept my promise like a man, 
And lost; yet with the lesson still 
Would gladly do the same again. 


neutral, halfwe 


‘““«“They come! they come! the pa! 
face come!’ 


Che Tale of the Tall Alcalve 


The chieftain shouted where he 
stood, 

Sharp watching at the margin wood, 

And gave the war-whoop’s treble 
yell, 

That like a knell on fond hearts 
fell 

Far watching from my rocky home. 


“No nodding plumes or banners 
fair 

Jnfurl’d or fretted through the air: 
No screaming fife or rolling drum 
Jid challenge brave of soul to come; 
ut, silent, sinew-bows were strung, 
ind, sudden, heavy quivers hung 
ind, swiftly, to the battle sprung 
Pall painted braves with tufted hair, 
Ake death-black banners in the air. 


“And long they fought, and firm 
and well 

ind silent fought, and silent fell, 

ave when they gave the fearful 
yell 

¥ death, defiance, or of hate. 

tut what were feathered flints to 
fate? 

nd what were yells to seething 
lead? 

nd what the few and untrained 
feet 

© troops that came with martial 
tread, 

nd moved by wood and hill and 

stream 

8 thick as people in a street, 

8 strange as spirits in a dream? 


“From pine and poplar, here and 
there, 


95. 


A cloud, a flash, a crash, a thud, 

A warrior’s garments roll’d in blood, 

A yell that rent the mountain air 

Of fierce defiance and despair, 

Told all who fell, and when and 
where. 

Then tighter drew the coils around, 

And closer grew the battle-ground, 

And fewer feather’d arrows fell, 

And fainter grew the baitle yell, 

Until upon that hill was heard 

The short, sharp whistle of the bird: 

Until that blood-soaked battle hill 

Was still as death, so more than still. 


“The calm, that cometh after all, 
Look’d sweetly down at shut of 
day, 
Where friend and foe commingled lay 
Like leaves of forest as they fall. 
Afar the somber mountains frown’d, 
Here tall pines wheel’d their shadows 
round, 
Like long, slim fingers of a hand 
That sadly pointed out the dead. 
Like some broad shield high over- 
head 
The great white moon led on and on, 
As leading to the better land. 
All night I heard black cricket's 
trill: 
A night-bird calling from the hill— 
The place was so profoundly still. 


“The mighty chief at last was 
down, 
A broken gate of brass and pride! 
His hair all dust, and this his crown! 
His firm lips were compress’d in 
hate 
To foes, yet all content with fate; 


96 

While, circled round him thick, the 
foe 

Had folded hands in dust, and 
died. 


His tomahawk lay at his side, 

All blood; beside his broken bow. 

One arm stretch’d out, still over- 
bold, \ 

One hand half doubled hid in dust, 

And clutch’d the earth, as if to hold 

His hunting grounds still in his 
trust. 


‘‘Here tall grass bow’d its tassel’d 
head 
In dewy tears above the dead, 
And there they lay in crook’d fern, 
That waved and wept above by 
turn: 
And further on, by somber trees, 
They lay, wild heroes of wild deeds, 
In shrouds alone of weeping weeds, 
Bound in a never-to-be-broken peace. 


‘“‘No trust that day had been 
betrayed; 
Not one had falter’d, not one brave 
Survived the fearful struggle, save 
One—save I the renegade, 
The red man’s friend, and—they 
held me so 
For this alone—the white man’s foe. 


‘“They bore me bound for many a 
day 
Through fen and wild, by foamy 
flood, 
From my dear mountains far away, 
Where an adobé prison stood 
Beside a sultry, sullen town, 
With iron eyes and stony frown; 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


And in a dark and narrow cell, 

So hot it almost took my breath, 

And seem’d but some outpost | 
hell, 

They thrust me—as if I had been 

A monster, in a monster’s den. 

I cried aloud, I courted death, 

I call’d unto a strip of sky, 

The only thing beyond my cell 

That I could see, but no reply 

Came but the echo of my breath. 

I paced—how long I cannot tell— 

My reason fail’d, I knew no more, 

And swooning, fell upon the floor. 

Then months went on, till deep ot 
night, 

When long thin bars of cool moo 
light 

Lay shimmering along the floor, 

My senses came to me once more. 


‘““My eyes look’d full into h 
eyes— 
Into her soul so true and tried, 
I thought myself in paradise, 
And wonder’d when she too hi 
died. . 
And then I saw the stripéd light 
That struggled past the prison bar, 
And in an instant, at the sight, 
My sinking soul fell just as far 
As could a star loosed by a jar 
From out the setting in a ring, 
The purpled semi-circled ring 
That seems to circle us at night. 


‘She saw my senses had return’¢ 
Then swift to press my pallid face- 
Then, as if spurn’d, she sudd 

turn’d 
Her sweet face to the prison wall; 


The Wale of the Tall Alcalde 


er bosom rose, her hot tears fell 

ist as drip moss-stones in a well, 

ad then, as if subduing all 

Lone strong struggle of the soul 

e what they were of vows or fears, 

‘jth kisses and hot tender tears, 

here in the deadly, loathsome place, 

1e bathed my pale and piteous 
face. 


“T was so weak I could not speak 

r press my pale lips to her cheek; 

only looked my wish to share 

he secret of her presence there. 

hen looking through her falling 
hair, 

ae press’d her finger to her lips, 

fore sweet than sweets the brown 
bee sips. 

lore sad than any grief untold, 

lore silent than the milk-white 

moon, 

he turned away. I heard unfold 

niron door, and she was gone. 


| “ At last, one midnight, I was free; 

gain I felt the liquid air 

round my hot brow like a sea, 

weet as my dear Madonna’s prayer, 

ir benedictions on the soul; 

‘ure air, which God gives free to 
all, 

gain I breathed without control— 

ure air that man would fain en- 
thrall; 

x0d’s air, which man hath seized and 

sold 

Jnto his fellow-man for gold. 


_“T bow’d down to the bended sky, 
_toss’d my two thin hands on high, 


7 


97 


I call’d unto the crooked moon, 

I shouted to the shining stars, 

With breath and rapture wuncon- 
troll’d, 

Like some wild school-boy loosed at 
noon, 

Or comrade coming from the wars, 

Hailing his companiers of old. 


‘Short time for 
delay ,— 
The cock is shrill, the east is gray, 
Pursuit is made, we must away. 
They cast me on a sinewy steed, 
And bid me look to girth and 
guide— 
A caution of but little need. 
I dash the iron in his side, 
Swift as the shooting stars I ride; 
I turn, I see, to my dismay, 
A silent rider red as they; 
I glance again—it is my bride, 
My love, my life, rides at my side. 


shouting of 


‘By gulch and gorge and brake and 

all, 

Swift as the shining meteors fall, 

We fly, and never sound nor word 

But ringing mustang hoof is heard, 

And limbs of steel and lungs of 
steam ; 

Could not be stronger than theirs 
seem. 

Grandly as in some joyous dream, 

League on league, and hour on hour, 

Far, far from keen pursuit, or power 

Of sheriff or bailiff, high or low, 

Into the bristling hills we go. 


“Into the tumbled, clear McCloud, 
White as the foldings of a shroud; 


98 Che Wale of the Tall Alcalde 


We dash into the dashing stream, 

We breast the tide, we drop the rein, 

We clutch the streaming, tangled 
mane— 

And yet the rider at my side 

Has never look nor word replied. 


“Out in its foam, its rush, its roar, 
Breasting away to the farther shore: 
Steadily, bravely, gain’d at last, 
Gain’d where never a dastard foe 
Has dared to come, or friend to go. 
Pursuit is baffled and danger pass’d. 


“Under an oak whose wide arms 

were 

Lifting aloft, as if in prayer, 

Under an oak where the shining 
moon 

Like feather’d snow in a winter 
noon 

Quiver’d, sifted, and drifted down 

In spars and bars on her shoulders 
brown: 

And yet she was as silent still 

As block stones toppled from the 
hill— 

Great basalt blocks that near us lay, 

Deep nestled in the grass untrod 

By aught save wild beasts of the 
wood— : 

Great, massive, squared, and chisel’d 
stone, 

Like columns that had toppled down 

From temple dome or tower crown, 

Along some drifted, silent way 

Of desolate and desert town 

Built by the children of the sun. 

And I in silence sat on one, 

And she stood gazing far away 


To where her childhood forests la 
Still as the stone I sat upon. 


“TI sought to catch her to 
breast 

charm her from her sil 
mood; 
She shrank as if a beam, a breath. 
Then silently before me stood, 
Still, coldly, as the kiss of death, 
Her face was darker than a pall, 
Her presence was so proudly tall, 
I would have started from the sto: 
Where I sat gazing up at her, 
As from a form to earth unknown, 
Had I possess’d the power to stir. 


And 


““*O touch me not, no more, 


more; ; 

’Tis past, and my sweet dream 
o’er, 

Impure! Impure! Impure!’  ¢ 
cried, 


In words as sweetly, weirdly wild 

As mingling of a rippled tide, 

And music on the waters spill’d. . , 

‘But you are free. Fly! Fly alone 

Yes, you will win another bride 

In some far clime where nought 
known 

Of all that you have won or lost, 

Or what your liberty has cost; 

Will win you name, and place, at 
power, 

And ne’er recall this face, this hour 

Save in some secret, deep regret, 

Which I forgive and you’ll forget. 

Your destiny will lead you on | 

Where, open'd wide to welcome yo 

Rich, ardent hearts and bosoms are 

And snowy arms, more purely fair, 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


id breasts—who dare say breasts 
more true? 


«They said you had deserted me, 

ad rued you of your wood and 
wild. 

knew, I knew it could not be, 

trusted as a trusting child. 

cross’d yon mountains bleak and 
high 

hat curve their rough backs to the 
sky, 

‘rode the white-maned mountain 
flood, 

nd ttack’d for weeks the trackless 
wood. 

he good God led me, as before, 

nd brought me to your prison-door. 


“*That madden’d call! that fever’d 
moan! 

heard you in the midnight call 

[y own name through the massive 
wall, 

1 my sweet mountain-tongue and 
fone— 

nd yet you call’d so feebly wild, 

near mistook you for a child. 


“'The keeper with his clinking 
keys 

sought, implored upon my knees 

hat I might see you, feel your 
breath, : 

our brow, or breathe you low 

replies 

f comfort in your lonely death. 

is red face shone, his redder eyes 

Tere like a fiend’s that feeds on lies. 

gain I heard your feeble moan, 

cried—unto a heart of stone. 


99 


Ah! why the hateful horrors tell? 
Enough! I crept into your cell. 


‘“‘*T nursed you, lured you back to 

life, 

And when you knew, and called me 
wife 

And love, with pale lips rife 

With love and feeble loveliness, 

I turn’d away, I hid my face, 

In mad reproach and such distress, 

In dust down in that loathsome 
place. 


‘“““ And then I vow’d a solemn vow 

That you should live, live and be 
free. 

And you have lived—are free; and 
now 

Too slow yon red sun comes to see 

My life or death, or me again. 

Oh, death! the peril and the pain 

I have endured! the dark, dark 
stain 

That I did take on my fair soul, 

All, all to save you, make you free, 

Are more than mortal can endure; 

But flame can make the foulest 
pure. 


‘““‘Behold this finished funeral 


pyre, 
All ready for the form and fire, 
Which these, my own hands, did | 
prepare 
For this last night; then lay me 
there. 
I would not hide me from my God 
Beneath the cold and sullen sod, 
But, wrapped in fiery shining shroud, 
Ascend to Him, a wreathing cloud.’ 


100 


“She paused, she turn’d, she lean’d 
apace 
Her glance and half-regretting face, 
As if to yield herself to me; 
And then she cried, ‘It cannot be, 
For I have vow’d a solemn vow, 
And, God help me to keep it now!’ 


“T stood with arms extended 
wide 

To catch her to my burning breast; 
She caught a dagger from her side 
And, ere I knew to stir or start, 
She plunged it in her bursting heart, 
And fell into my arms and died— 
Died as my soul to hers was press’d. 
Died as I held her to my breast, 
Died without one word or moan, 
And left me with my dead—alone. 


“‘T laid her warm upon the pile, 
And underneath the lisping oak 


I watch’d the columns of dark 
smoke 

Embrace her sweet lips, with a 
smile 

Of frenzied fierceness, while there 
came 


A gleaming column of red flame, 
That grew a grander monument 
Above her nameless noble mould 
Than ever bronze or marble lent 
To king or conqueror of old. 


“‘It seized her in its hot embrace. 
And leapt as if to reach the stars. 
Then looking up I saw a face 
So saintly and so sweetly fair, 

So sad, so pitying, and so pure, 
I nigh forgot the prison bars, 


Che Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


And for one instant, one alone, 
I felt I could forgive, endure. 


“T laid a circlet of white stone, 
And left her ashes there alone. 
Years after, years of storm and pa 
I sought that sacred ground again 
I saw the circle of white stone 
With tall, wild grasses overgrown. 
I did expect, I know not why, 
From out her sacred dust to find 
Wild pinks and daisies bloom 

fair; 
And when I did not find them the 
I almost deem’d her God unkind, 
Less careful of her dust than I. 


“But why the dreary tale p 
long? 

And deem you I confess’d me wroi 
That I did bend a patient knee: 
To all the deep wrongs done to me 
That I, because the prison mould 
Was on my brow, and all its chill 
Was in my heart as chill as night, 
Till soul and body both were cold, 
Did curb my free-born mountain wi 
And sacrifice my sense of right? 


“No! no! and had they come tl 
day 
While I with hands and garmet 
red 
Stood by her pleading, patient clay 
The one lone watcher by my dead, 
With cross-hilt dagger in my hand 
And offer’d me my life and all 
Of titles, power, or of place, . 
I should have spat them in the fac 
And spurn’d them every one. 
I live as God gave me to live, 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


see as God gave me to see. 

is not my nature to forgive, 

‘cringe and plead and bend my 
knee 

» God or man in woe or weal, 

‘penitence I cannot feel. 


“T do not question school nor 
creed 

Christian, Protestant, or Priest; 

only know that creeds to me 

-e but new names for mystery, 

aat good is good from east to east, 

ad more I do not know nor need 

> know, to love my neighbor well. 

take their dogmas, as they tell, 

heir pictures of their Godly good, 

garments thick with heathen blood 

heir heaven with his harp of gold, 

heir horrid pictures of their hell— 

ake hell and heaven undenied, 

et were the two placed side by 
side, ' 

laced full before me for my choice, 

s they are pictured, best and worst, 

s they are peopled, tame and bold, 

he canonized, and the accursed 

Tho dared to think, and thinking 
speak, 

nd speaking act, bold cheek to 
cheek, 

would in transports choose the first, 

nd enter hell with lifted voice. 


i 


“Go read the annals of the North 

nd records there of many a wail, 

4 marshaling and going forth 

‘or missing sheriffs, and for men 

Vho fell and none knew how or 
when,— 


IOI 


Who disappear’d on mountain trail, 
Or in some dense and narrow vale. 
Go, traverse Trinity and Scott, 
That curve their dark backs to the 
sun: 
Go, prowl them all. 
not 
The chronicles of my wild life? 
My secret on their lips of stone, 
My archives built of human bone? 
Go, range their wilds as I have done, 
From snowy crest to sleeping vales, 
And you will find on every one 
Enough to swell a thousand tales. 
* * * * * 


Lo! have they 


‘‘The soul cannot survive alone, 
And hate will die, like other things; 
I felt an ebbing in my rage; 

I hunger’d for the sound of one, 

Just one familiar word,— 

Yearn’d but to hear my fellow 
speak, 

Or sound of woman’s mellow tone, 

As beats the wild, imprisoned bird, 

That long nor kind nor mate has 
heard, 

With bleeding wings and panting 
beak 

Against its iron cage. 


“*T saw a low-roof’d rancho lie, 

Far, far below, at set of sun, 

Along the foot-hills crisp and dun— 

A lone sweet star in lower sky; 

Saw children passing to and fro, 

The busy housewife come and go, 

And white cows come at her com- 
mand, 

And none look’d larger than my 
hand. 


102 


Then worn and torn, and tann’d and 
brown, 

And heedless all, I hasten’d down; 

A wanderer, wandering lorn and late, 

I stood before the rustic gate. 


“Two little girls, with brown feet 
bare, 
And tangled, tossing, yellow hair, 


Play’d on the green, fantastic 
dress’d, 

Around a_ great Newfoundland 
brute 


That lay half-resting on his breast, 

And with his red mouth open’d 
wide 

Would make believe that he would 
bite, 

As they assail’d him left and right, 

And then sprang to the other side, 

And fill’d with shouts the willing 
air. 

_ Oh, sweeter far than lyre or lute 

To my then hot and thirsty heart, 

And better self so wholly mute, 


Were those sweet voices calling there. 


“Though some sweet scenes my 

eyes have seen, 

Some melody my soul has heard, 

No song of any maid, or bird, 

Or splendid wealth of tropic scene, 

Or scene or song of anywhere, 

Has my impulsive soul so stirr’d, 

As those young angels sporting 
there. 


“The dog at sight of me arose, 
And nobly stood with lifted nose, 
Afront the children, now so still, 
And staring at me with a will. 


The Cale of the Tall Alcalde 


‘Come in, come in,’ the rane 
cried, 

As here and there the housew 
hied; 

‘Sit down, sit down, you travel lat 

What news of politics or war? 

And are you tired? Go you far? 

And where you from? Be quick, r 
Kate, 

This boy is sure in need of food.’ 

The little children close by stood, 

And watch’d and gazed inquiringly 

Then came and climbed upon n 
knee. 


“That there’s my Ma,’ the elde 
said, 
And laugh’d and toss’d her pret 
head; 
And then, half bating of her joy, 
‘Have you a Ma, you stranger boy 
And there hangs Carlo on the wall 
As large as life; that mother drew 
With berry stains upon a shred 
Of tattered tent; but hardly you 
Would know the picture his at all, 
For Carlo’s black, and this is red.’ 
Again she laugh’d and shook h 
head, 
And shower’d curls all out of place; 
Then sudden sad, she raised her face 
To mine, and tenderly she said, 
‘Have you, like us, a pretty home? 
Have you, like me, a dog and toy? 
Where do you live, and whith 
roam? 
And where’s your Pa, poor strangs 
boy?’ 


“It seem’d so sweetly out ¢ 
place 


The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 


gain to meet my fellow-man, 
gazed and gazed upon his face 

s something I had never seen. 

he melody of woman’s voice 

ell on my ear as falls the rain 

pon the weary, waiting plain. 
heard, and drank and drank again, 
s earth with crack’d lips drinks the 
rain, 

1 green to revel and rejoice. 

ate with thanks my frugal food, 
he first return’d for many a day. 
had met kindness by the way! 
had at last encounter’d good! 


“TI sought my couch, but not to 
sleep; 
lew thoughts were coursing strong 
and deep 
fy wild, impulsive passion-heart; 
could not rest, my heart was 
moved, 
Ly iron will forgot its part, 
ind I wept like a child reproved. 


“T lay and pictured me a life 
\far from peril, hate, or pain; 
Inough of battle, blood, and strife, 
would take up life’s load again; 
\nd ere the breaking of the morn 
‘swung my rifle from the horn, 
\nd turned to other scenes and lands 
Nith lighten’d heart and whiten’d 

hands. 


_ “Where orange blossoms never die, 
Nhere red fruits ripen all the year 
3eneath a sweet and balmy sky, 

tar from my language or my land, 
Reproach, regret, or shame or fear, 
[came in hope, I wander’d here— 


103 


Yes, here; and this red, bony hand 
That holds this glass of ruddy 
cheer—”’ 


tis bel 

advocate. 

He sprang to his feet, and hot with 
hate 

He reach’d his hands, and he call’d 
aloud, 

“'Tis the renegade of the 
McCloud!”’ 


hiss’d the crafty 


red 


Slowly the Alcalde rose from his 


chair; 

“Hand me, touch me, him who 
dare!”’ 

And his heavy glass on the board of 
oak 


He smote with such savage and 
mighty stroke 

It ground to dust in his bony hand, 

And heavy bottles did clink and 
tip 

As if an earthquake were in the 
land. 

He tower’d up, and in his ire 

Seem’d taller than a church’s spire. 

He gazed a moment—and then, the 
while 

An icy cold and defiant smile 

Did curve his thin and livid lip, 

He turn’d on his heel, he strode 
through the hall 

Grand as a god, so grandly tall, 

Yet white and cold as a chisel’d 
stone; 

He passed him out the adobé door 

Into the night, and he passed alone, 

And never was known or heard of 
more. 


104 


Cometomy sunland! Come with me 
To the land I love; where the sun and 


sea 

Are wed for ever; where the palm and 
pine 

Are fill’d with singers; where tree 
and vine 

Are votced with prophets! O come, 
and you 

Shall sing a song wath the seas that 
swirl 

And kiss their hands to that cold 
white girl, 

To the maiden moon in her mantle of 

blue. 


“And I have said, and I say it 


ever, 

As the years go on and the world goes 
over, 

’Twere better to be content and 
‘clever, 

In the tending of cattle and tossing of 
clover, 

In the grazing of cattle and growing 
of grain, 

Than a strong man striving for fame 
or gain; 

Be even as kine in the red-tipped 
clover: 

For they lie down and their rests are 
rests, 

And the days are theirs, come sun, 
come rain, 


To rest, rise up, and repose again; 

While we wish, yearn, and do pray in 
vain, 

And hope to ride on the billows of 
bosoms, 


| 
THE ARIZONIAN 


Be 


The Arisontan 


And hope to rest in the haven ° 
breasts, 

Till the heart is sicken’d and the fai 
hope dead— 

Be even as clover with its crown 0 
blossoms, 

Even as blossoms ere the bloom is line 

Kiss’d by the kine and the brow: 
sweet bee— | 

For these have the sun, and moon 
and air, 

And never a bit of the burthen of care 

Yet with all of our caring what mor 
have we? 


“T would court content like a love 
lonely, 


I would woo her, win her, and wea’ 


her only. 

I would never go over the white se 
wall 

For gold or glory or for aught at all.’ ] 


He said these things as he stoot 
with the pes 
By the river’s rim in the field o 
clover, 


While the stream flow’d on and tht 


clouds flew over, 
With the sun tangled in and the 
fringes afire. 


So the Squire lean’d with a kindly 


glory 
To humor his guest, and to hear hiv 
story; 
For his guest had gold, and he i 
was clever, 


And mild of manner; and, what was 
more, he, 


In the morning’s ramble had praised 
the kine, 

The clover’s reach and the meadows 
fine, 

And so made the Squire his friend 

| forever. 


His brow was brown’d by the sun 
| and weather, 
And touch’d by the terrible hand of 
time; 
His rich black beard had a fringe of 
| rime, 
_ As silk and silver inwove together. 
There were hoops of gold all over his 
hands, 
| And across his breast in chains and 
bands, 
| Broad and massive as belts of leather. 


And the belts of gold were bright in 
the sun, 
But brighter than gold his black eyes 
shone 
_ From their sad face-setting so swarth 
and dun— 
_ Brighter than beautiful Santan stone, 
Brighter even than balls of fire, 
_ As he said, hot-faced, in the face of 
the Squire:— 


f 


‘““The pines bow’d over, the stream 
bent under, 
_ The cabin was cover’d with thatches 
of palm 
Down in a cafion so deep, the wonder 
Was what it could know in its clime 
but calm: 
Down in a cafion so cleft asunder 
_ By sabre-stroke in the young world’s 
prime, 


i 


| 


The Arisontan 


105 


It look’d as if broken by bolts of 
thunder, 

And burst asunder and rent and 
riven 

By earthquakes driven that turbulent 
time 

The red cross lifted red hands of 
heaven. 


“And this in that land where the 

sun goes down, 

And gold is gather’d by tide and by 
stream, 

And the maidens are brown as the 
cocoa brown, 

And life is a love and a love is a 
dream; 

Where the winds come in from the far 
Cathay 


With odor of spices and balm and 


bay, 

And summer abideth with man 
alway, 

Nor comes in a tour with the stately 
June, 

And comes too late and returns too 
soon. 


““She stood in the shadows as the 

sun went down, 

Fretting her hair with her fingers 
brown, 

As tall as the silk-tipp’d tassel’d 
corn— 

Stood watching, dark brow’d, as I 
weighed the gold 

We had wash’d that day where the 
river roll’d; 

And her proud lip curl’d with a sun- 
clime scorn, 


106 


As she ask’d, ‘Is she better, or fairer 
than I?p— 


She, that blonde in the land 
beyond, 

Where the sun is hid and the seas are 
high— 

That you gather in gold as the years 
go by, 


And hoard and hide it away for her 
As the squirrel burrows the black 
pine-burr?’ 


‘‘Now the gold weigh’d well, but 
was lighter of weight 
Than we two had taken for days of 
late, 
So I was fretted, and brow a-frown, 
I said, half-angered, with head held 


down— 

‘Well, yes she is fairer; and I loved her 
first: 

And shall love her last, come worst to 
the worst.’ 


“‘Her lips grew livid, and her eyes 


afire 

As I said this thing; and higher and 
higher 

The hot words ran, when the booming 
thunder 

Peal’d in the crags and the pine-tops 
under, 

While up by the cliff in the murky 
skies 

It look’d as the clouds had caught the 
fire— 

The flash and fire of her wonderful 
eyes! 


“‘She turn’d from the door and 
down to the river, 


Che Arisonian 


And mirror’d her face in the whimsi- | 


cal tide, 


Then threw back her hair as one 7 


throwing a quiver, 


As an Indian throws it back far from | 


his side 
And free from his hands, swinging 
fast to the shoulder 


When rushing to battle; and, turning, . 


she sigh’d 


And shook, and shiver’d as aspens | 


shiver. 


Then a great green snake slid into 


the river, 


Glistening green, and with eyes of fire; _ 


Quick, double-handed she seized a 
boulder, 


And cast it with all the fury of 


passion, 
As with lifted head it went curving 
across, 


Swift darting its tongue like a fierce 


desire, 


Curving and curving, lifting higher — 


and higher, 
Bent and beautiful as a river moss; 
Then, smitten, it turn’d, bent, broken 
and doubled 


And lick’d, red-tongued, like a forked _ 


fire, 


Then sank and the troubled waters | 


bubbled 


And so swept on in the old swift | 


fashion. 


“T lay in my hammock: the air was 
heavy 


And hot and threat’ning; the very | 


heaven 
Was holding its breath; and bees ina 
bevy 


i 
j| 


Hid under my thatch; and birds were 
driven 

‘In clouds to the rocks in a hurried 

& whirr 

: As I peer’d down by the path for her. 

| 

‘She stood like a bronze bent over 


| the river, 
‘The proud eyes fix’d, the passion 
unspoken. 
Then the heavens broke like a great 
| ___ dyke broken; 
And ere I fairly had time to give 
her 
A shout of warning, a rushing of 
wind 
And the rolling of clouds and a deaf- 
ening din | 


And a darkness that had been black 
to the blind 

Came down, as I shouted ‘Come in! 
Come in! 

Come under the roof, come up from 
the river, 

As up from a grave—come now, or 
come never!”’ 

The tassel’d tops of the pines were as 
weeds, 

The red-woods rock’d like to lake- 
side reeds, 

And the world seemed darken’d and 
drown ’d forever, 

While I crouched low; as a beast that 
bleeds. 


“One time in the night as the black 
wind shifted, 


And a flash of lightning stretch’d 


over the stream, 


TI seemed to see her with her brown 


hands lifted— 


The Arisonian 


107 


Only seem’d to see as one sees in a 
dream— 

With her eyes wide wild and her pale 
lips press’d, 

And the blood from her brow, and the 
flood to her breast; 

When the flood caught her hair as 
flax in a wheel, 

And wheeling and whirling her round 
like a reel; 

Laugh’d loud her despair, then leapt 
like a steed, 

Holding tight to her hair, folding 
fast to her heel, 

Laughing fierce, leaping far as if 
spurr’d to its speed! 


‘‘Now mind, I tell you all this did 

but seem— 

Was seen as you see fearful scenes in a 
dream; 

For what the devil could the lightning 
show 

In a night like that, I should like to 
know? 


‘‘ And then I slept, and sleeping I 
dream’d 
Of great green serpents with tongues 
of fire, 
And of death by drowning, and of 
after death-— 
Of the day of judgment, wherein it 


seem’d 

That she, the heathen, was bidden 
higher, 

Higher than I; that I clung to her 
side, 


And clinging struggled, and strug- 
gling cried, 


108 


Che Arisonian 


And crying, wakened all weak of my | Or paused in pity, and in silence 


breath. 


“Long leaves of the sun lay over 


the floor, 

And a chipmunk chirp’d in the open 
door, 

While above on his crag the eagle 
scream’d, 

Scream’d as he never had scream’d 
before. 

I rush’d to the river: the flood had 
gone 

Like a thief, with only his tracks 
upon 

The weeds and grasses and warm wet 
sand, 


And I ran after with reaching hand, 

And call’d as I reach’d, and reach’d as 
Iran, 

And ran till I came to the cafion’s 
van, 

Where the waters lay in a _ bent 
lagoon, 

Hook’d and crook’d like the horned 
moon. 


‘‘And there in the surge where the 

waters met, 

And the warm wave lifted, and the 
winds did fret 

The wave till it foam’d with rage on 
the land, 

She lay with the wave on the warm 
white sand; 

Her rich hair trailed with the trailing 
weeds, 

While her small brown hands lay 
prone or lifted 

As the waves sang strophes in the 
broken reeds, 


sifted 
Sands of gold, as upon her grave. 


‘And as sure as you see yon brows- 

ing kine, 

And breathe the breath of your 
meadows fine, 

When I went to my waist in the warm 
white wave 

And stood all pale in the wave to my 
breast, 

And reach’d my hands in her rest and 
unrest, 

Her hands were lifted and reach’d 
to mine. 


‘“‘Now mind, I tell you, I cried, 


‘Come in! 

Come into the house, come out from 
the hollow, 

Come out of the storm, come up from 
the river!’ 


Aye, cried, and call’d in that desolate 
iL: cling 

Though I did not rush out, and in 
plain words give her 

A wordy warning of the flood to 
follow, - 

Word by word, and letter by letter; 

But she knew it as well as I, and 
better; 

For once in the desert of New Mexico 

When we two sought frantically far 
and wide 

For the famous spot where Apaches 
shot 

With bullets of gold their buffalo, 

And she stood faithful to death at my 
side, 

I threw me down in the hard hot sand 


The Arisontan 


Utterly famish’d and ready to die; 
Then a speck arose in the red-hot 
ee 

A speck no larger than a lady’s 
| hand— 
_ While she at my side bent tenderly 
| over, 
_ Shielding my face from the sun as a 
| cover, 
_ And wetting my face, as she watch’d 
by my side, 


- From a skin she had borne till the 


high noontide, 

(I had emptied mine in the heat of the 
morning) 

When the thunder mutter’d far over 
the plain 

Like a monster bound or a beast in 
pain: 

She sprang the instant, and gave the 
warning, 

With her brown hand pointed to the 
burning skies, 

For I was too weak unto death to 
rise. 

But she knew the peril, and her iron 
will, 

With a heart as true as the great 
North Star, ; 

Did bear me up to the palm-tipp’d 
hill, 

Where the fiercest beasts in a brother- 
hood, 

Beasts that had fled from the plain 
and far, 

In perfectest peace expectant stood, 

With their heads held high, and their 
limbs a-quiver. 

‘Then ere she barely had time to 
breathe 

The boiling waters began to seethe 


109 


From hill to hill in a booming river, 

Beating and breaking from hill to 
hill— 

Even while yet the sun shot fire, 

Without the shield of a cloud above— 

Filling the canon as you would fill 

A wine-cup, drinking in swift desire, 

With the brim new-kiss’d by the lips 
you love! 


“So you see she knew—knew per- 
fectly well, 
As well as I could shout and tell, 
That the mountain would send a flood 
to the plain, 
Sweeping the gorge like a hurricane 
When the fire flashed and the thunder 
fell. 


‘Therefore it is wrong, and I say 

therefore 

Unfair, that a mystical, brown- 
wing’d moth 

Or midnight bat should forevermore 

Fan past my face with its wings of 
air, 

And follow me up, down, every- 
where, : 

Flit past, pursue me, or fly before, 

Dimly limning in each fair place 

The full fixed eyes and the sad, brown 
face, 

So forty times worse than if it were 
wroth! 


“T gather’d the gold I kad hid in 
the earth, 
Hid over the door and hid under the 
hearth: 
Hoarded and hid, as the world went 
over, 


IIo 


For the love of a blonde by a sun- 
brown’d lover, 

And I said to myself, as I set my 
face 

To the East and afar from the deso- 
late place, 

‘She has braided her tresses, and 
through her tears 

Look’d away to the West for years, 
the years 

That I have wrought where the sun 
tans brown; ; 

She has waked by night, she has 
watch’d by day, 

She has wept and wonder’d at my 
delay, 

Alone and in tears, with her head held 
down, 

Where the ships sail out and the seas 
whirl in, 

Forgetting to knit and refusing to 
spin. 

‘She shall lift her head, she shall 

see her lover, 

She shall hear his voice like a sea that 
rushes, 

She shall hold his gold in her hands of 
snow, 

And down on his breast she shall hide 
her blushes, 

And never a care shall her true heart 
know, 

While the clods are below, or the 
clouds are above her.’ 


“‘On the fringe of the night she 
stood with her pitcher 
At the old town fountain: and oh! 
passing fair. 
‘I am riper now,’ I said, ‘but am 
richer,’ 


Ba 


Che Arisonian 


And I lifted my hand to my beard 
and hair; 

‘Iam burnt by the sun, Iam brown’d ~ 
by the sea; 

I am white of my beard, and am bald, 
may be; 

Yet for all such things what can her 
heart care?’ 

Then she moved; and I said, ‘How 
marvelous fair!’ 

She look’d to the West, with her arm 
arch’d over; 

‘Looking for me, her sun-brown’d 
lover,’ 

I said to myself, and my heart grew 
bold, 

And I stepp’d me nearer to her 
presence there, 

As approaching a friend; for ‘twas 
here of old 

Our troths were plighted and the tale 
was told. 


‘‘How young she was and how fair 

she was! 

How tall as a palm, and how pearly 
fair, 

As the night came down on her glori- 
ous hair! 

Then the night grew deep and my 
eyes grew dim, 

And a sad-faced figure began to swim 

And float by my face, flit past, then 
pause, 

With her hands held up and her head 
held down, 

Yet face to my face; and that face 
was brown! 


“‘Now why did she come and cons 
front me there, 


The Arisonian 


With the flood to her face and the 
moist in her hair, 


And a mystical stare in her marvelous 


eyes? 
I had call’d to her twice, ‘Come in! 
come in! 
‘Come out of the storm to the calm 
within!’ 
Now, that is the reason I do make 
complaint, 
That for ever and ever her face should 
) rise, 
Facing face to face with her great sad 
eyes. 


“T said then to myself, and I say it 

again, 

Gainsay it you, gainsay it who will, 

I shall say it over and over still, 

And will say it ever; for I know it 
true, 

That I did all that a man could do 

(Some men’s good doings are done in 
vain) 

To save that passionate child of the 
sun, 

With her love as deep as the doubled 
main, 


_ And as strong and fierce as a troubled 


sea— 

That beautiful bronze with its soul of 
fire, 

Its tropical love and its kingly ire— 

That child as fix’d as a pyramid, 

As tall as a tule and pure as a nun— 


_ And all there is of it, the all I did, 


As often happens was done in vain. 


‘So there is no bit of her blood on me. 


6e6 


She is marvelous young and won- 
derful fair,’ 


IIl 


I said again, and my heart grew 
bold, 

And beat and beat a charge for my 
feet. 

‘Time that defaces us, places, and 
replaces us, 

And trenches our faces in furrows for 
tears, 

Has traced here nothing in all these 
years. 

’'Tis the hair of gold that I vex’d of 
old, 

The marvelous flowing, gold-flower of 


hair, 

And the peaceful eyes in their sweet 
surprise 

That I have kiss’d till the head swam 
round. 

And the delicate curve of the dimpled 
chin, 

And the pouting lips and the pearls 
within 

Are the same, the same, but so young, 
so fair!’ 


My heart leapt out and back at a 
bound, 

As a child that starts, then stops, 
then lingers. 


‘How wonderful young!’ I lifted my 
fingers 

And fell to counting the round years 
down 

That I had dweit where the sun tans 
brown. 


“Four full hands, and a finger 
over! 
‘She does not know me, her truant 
lover,’ 
I said to myself, for her brow was 
a-frown 


112 


As I stepp’d still nearer, with my 
head held down, 
All abash’d and in blushes my brown 


face over; 

‘She does not know me, her long lost 
lover, 

For my beard’s so long and my skin 
so brown 

That I well might pass myself for 
another.’ 

So I lifted my voice and I spake 
aloud: 

‘Annette, my darling! Annette Mac- 
leod!’ 

She started, she stopped, she turn’d 
amazed, - 

She stood all wonder, her eyes wild- 
wide, 

Then turn’d in terror down the dusk 
wayside, 

And cried as she fled, ‘The man he is 
crazed, 

And he calls the maiden name of my 
mother!’ 


“Let the world turn over, and over, 

and over, 

And toss and tumble like beasts in 
pain, 

Crack, quake, and tremble, and turn 
full over 

And die, and never rise up again; 

Let her dash her peaks through the 
purple cover, 

Let her plash her seas in the face of 
the sun— 

T have no one to love me now, not 
one, 

In a world as full as a world can 
hold; 

So I will get gold as I erst have done, 


The Arisonian 


I will gather a coffin top-full of 
gold; 


To take to the door of Death, to 


buy— 


Buy what, when I double my hands 


and die? 


‘‘Go down, go down to your fields 
of clover, 
Go down with your kine to the pas- 
tures fine, 
And give no thought, or care, or 
_ labor 


For maid or man, good name or. 


neighbor; 


For I gave all as the years went 


OVel—— 


Gave all my youth, my years and | 


labor, 


And a heart as warm as the world is 


cold, 
For a beautiful, bright, and delusive 
lie: 


Gave youth, gave years, gave love for 


gold; 
Giving and getting, yet what have I? 
p 
“The red ripe stars hang low over- 
head, 
Let the good and the light of soul 
reach up, 


Pluck gold as plucking a butter-cup: | 
But I am as lead, and my hands are | 


red. 


‘“‘So the sun climbs up, and on, and 


over, 
And the days go out and the tides 
come in, 


And the pale moon rubs on her purple 


cover 


| 
| 
| 
4 
! 


The Last 


ji worn as thin and as bright as 
‘tin; 

at the ways are dark and the days 

are dreary, 

od the dreams of youth are but dust 

| in age, 

nd the heart grows harden’d and the 

__ hands grow weary, 

olding them up for their heritage. 


“For we promise so great and we 

gain so little; 

or we promise so great of glory and 
gold, 

nd we gain so little that the hands 
grow cold, 

nd the strained heart-strings wear 
bare and brittle, ' 

‘nd for gold and glory we but gain 
instead 

fond heart sicken’d and a fair hope 
dead. 


Taschastas 


113 


“So I have said, and I say it 
over, 
And can prove it over and over 
again, 
That the four-footed beasts in the 
red-crown’d clover, 
The piéd and hornéd beasts on the 


plain 

That lie down, rise up, and repose 
again, 

And do never take care or toil or 
spin, 


Nor buy, nor build, nor gather in 
gold, } 

As the days go out and the tides 
come in, 

Are better than we by a thousand- 
fold; 

For what is it all, in the words of 
fire, 

But a vexing of soul and a vain 
desire?’’ 


THE LAST TASCHASTAS 


“he halls were brown, the heavens were 
blue, 

| woodpecker pounded a pine-top shell, 

Vhile a partridge whistled the whole 
day through 

_ Fora rabbii to dance in the chaparral, 

And a grey grouse drumm'd, “ All's 

well, all’s well.” wee 
ee ee 


I 


Wrinkled and brown as a bag of 
~ leather, 
\ squaw sits moaning long and low. 
Yesterday she was a wife and mother, 
8 


ana 


Today she is rocking her to and fro, 
A childless widow, in weeds and woe. 


An Indian sits in a rocky cavern 

Chipping a flint in an arrow head; 

His children are moving as still as 
shadows, 

His squaw is moulding some balls of 
lead, 

With round face painted a battle-red. 


An Indian sits in a black-jack jungle, 
Where a grizzly bear has rear’d her 
young, 


114 


Whetting a flint on a _ granite 
boulder. 

His quiver is over his brown back 
hung— 

His face is streak’d and his bow is 
strung. 


An Indian hangs from a cliff of 
granite, 

Like an eagle’s nest built in the air, 

Looking away to the east, and 
watching 

The smoke of the cabins curling 
there, 

And eagle’s feathers are in his hair. 


In belt of wampum, in battle fashion 

An Indian watches with wild desire. 

He is red with paint, he is black with 

CePA aR ERIE 2 FL, 

And grand as a god in his savage 
ee * 

He leans and listens till stars are 


a-fire. 


All somber and sullen and sad, a 
chieftain 

Now looks from the mountain far 
into the sea. 

Just before him beat in the white 
billows, 

Just behind him the toppled tall 
tree 

And woodmen' chopping, 
buckled to knee. 


knee 


Il 


All together, all in council, 
In a cafion wall’d so high 
That nothing could ever reach them 


The Last Caschastas . 


Save some stars dropp’d from tf 
sky. | 
And the brown bats sweeping by: 


Tawny chieftains thin and wiry, 

Wise as brief, and brief as bold; 

Chieftains young and fierce aj 
fiery, 

Chieftains stately, stern and old, 

Bronzed and _ battered—batter 
gold. 


Flamed the council-fire brighter, 

Flash’d black eyes like diamo1 
beads, 

When a woman told her sorrows, 

While a warrior told his deeds, 

And a widow tore her weeds. 


Thén was lit the pipe of council 
That their fathers smoked of old, 
With its stem of manzanita, 

And its bowl of quartz and gold, 
And traditions manifold. 


How from lip to lip in silence 
Burn’d it round the circle red, 
Like an evil star slow passing 
(Sign of battles and bloodshed) 
Round the heavens overhead. 


Then the silence deep was broken 
By the thunder rolling far, % 
As gods muttering in anger, 

Or the bloody battle-car q 
Of some Christian king at war. 


‘Tis the spirits of my Fathers _ 
Mutt’ring vengeance in the skies; 
And the flashing of the lightning _ 


| The Last Taschastas 


ithe anger of their eyes, 
idding us in battle rise,” 


(ied the war-chief, now uprising, 
iked all above the waist, 

hile a belt of shells and silver 

eld his tamoos to its place, ° 

ad the war-paint streaked his face. 


lomen melted from the council, \ 
bys crept backward out of sight,| 
‘Malone a wall of warriors 
| their paint and battle-plight 

‘t reflecting back the light. 


‘) my Fathers in the storm- 
cloud!” 

(ed arms tossing to the skies, 

‘hile the massive walls of granite 

‘em’d to shrink to half their size, 


ad to mutter strange replies)— 


‘Soon we come, O angry Fathers, 

‘own the darkness you have cross’d: 

beak for hunting-grounds there for 
HS; | 

hose you left us we have lost— 

one like blossoms in a frost. 


Warriors!’’ (and his arms fell folded 

n his tawny, swelling breast, 

"hile his voice, now low and plain- 
tive 

s the waves in their unrest, 

jouching tenderness confess’d). 


Where is Wrotto, wise of counsel, 

esterday here in his place? 

_ brave lies dead down 
valley, 


in the 


115 


Last brave of his line and race, 
And a Ghost sits on his face. 


‘Where his boy the tender-hearted, 

With his mother yestermorn? 

Lo! a wigwam door is darken’d, 

And a mother mourns forlorn, 

With her long locks toss’d and torn. 

“Lo! our daughters have been 
gather’d 

From among us by the foe, 

Like the lilies they once gather’d 

In the spring-time all aglow 

From the banks of living snow. 


“Through the land where we for 
ages 

Laid the bravest, dearest dead, 

Grinds the savage white man’s plow- 
share . 

Grinding sire’s bones for bread— 

We shall give them blood instead. 


““T saw white skulls in a furrow, 
And around the cursed plowshare 
Clung the flesh of my own children, 
And my mother’s tangled hair 
Trailed along the furrow there. 


“Warriors! braves! I cry for ven- 
geance! 

And the dim ghosts of the dead 

Unavenged do wail and shiver 

In the storm cloud overhead, 

And shoot arrows battle-red.”’ 


Then he ceased and sat among 
them, 

With his long locks backward strown; 

They as mute as men of marble, 


HELO 


He a king upon the throne, 
And as still as any stone. 


Then uprose the war chief’s daughter, 
Taller than the tassell’d corn, 
Sweeter than the kiss of morning, 
Sad as some sweet star of morn, 
Half defiant, half forlorn. 


Robed in skins of stripéd panther 
Lifting loosely to the air 

With a face a shade of sorrow 
And black eyes that said, Beware! 
Nestled in a storm of hair; 


With her striped robes around her, 
Fasten’d by an eagle’s beak, 

Stood she by the stately chieftain, 
Proud and pure as Shasta’s peak, 
As she ventured thus to speak: 


“Must the tomahawk of battle 
’ Be unburied where it lies, 

O, last war chief of Taschastas? 
Must the smoke of battle rise 
Like a storm cloud in the skies? 


“True, some wretch has laid a 
brother 

With his swift feet to the sun, 

But because one bough is broken, 

Must the broad oak be undone? 

All the fir trees fell’d as one? 


“True, the braves 
wasted 

Like ripe blossoms in the rain, 

But when we have spent the arrows, 

Do we twang the string in vain, 


And then snap the bow in twain?”’ 


have faded, 


| f 
Che Last Taschastas 
; 


at 


| 
Like a vessel in the tempest : 
Shook the warrior, wild and grim, | 
As he gazed out in the midnight, - | 
As to things that beckon’d him, 
And his eyes were moist and dim. | 
Then he turn’d, and to his bosom | 
Battle-scarr’d, and strong as brass, 
Tenderly the warrior press’d her | 
As if she were made of glass, 
Murtnasing, *‘ Alas! alas! | 


““Loua Ellah! Spotted Lily! 
Streaks of blood shall be the sign, | 
On their cursed and mystic pages, _ 
Representing me and mine! | 
By Tonatiu’s fiery shrine! 


“When the grass shall grow ut 
trodden | 

In my warpath, and the plow 

Shall be grinding through this cafio1) 

Where my braves are gather’d now, 

Still shall they record this vow: 


‘War and vegeance! rise, my wal) 
riors, - | 
Rise and shout the battle sign, | 
Ye who love revenge and glory! | 
Ye for peace, in silence pine, 
And no more be braves of mine.” 
Then the war yell roll’d and echoed | 
As they started from the ground, — | 
‘rill an eagle from his cedar 
Starting, answer’d back the sound, 
And flew circling round and round. 


“‘Enough, 
father,” 


The Last Taschastas 


lash’d the valor and the passion 
hat may sleep but never dies, 
s she proudly thus replies: 


Can the cedar be a willow, 
liant and as little worth? 

/ shall stand the king of forests, 
tits fall shall shake the earth, 
esolating heart and hearth!”’ 


Il 


rom cold east shore to warm west 
sea 

he red men followed the red sun, 

nd faint and failing fast as he, 

hey knew too well their race was 
run. 

his ancient tribe, press’d to the 
wave, 

here fain had 
slave, 

nd died out as red embers die 

rom flames that once leapt hot and 
high; 

ut, roused to anger, half arose 

round that chief, a sudden flood, 

hot and hungry cry for blood; 

alf drowsy shook a feeble hand, 

hen sank back in a tame repose, 

nd left him to his fate and foes, 

Stately wreck upon the strand. 


slept a patient 


y 

iS eye was like the’ lightning’s 
wing, 

As voice was like a rushing flood; 

nd when a captive bound he stood 


he 
| 
q Bick af ‘ey 1 


117 
His presence look’d the perfect 
king. 


’Twas held at first that he should 
die: 
I never knew the reason why 
A milder counsel did prevail, 
Save that we shrank from blood, and 


save 

That brave men do respect the 
brave. 

Down sea sometimes there was a 
sail, 


And far at sea, they said, an isle, 

And he was sentenced to exile; 

In open boat upon the sea 

To go the instant on the main, 

And never under penalty 

Of death to touch the shore again. 

A troop of bearded buckskinn'd 
men ) 

Bore him hard-hurried to the wave, 

Placed him swift in the boat; and 
then 

Swift pushing to the gristling sea, 

His daughter rush’d down suddenly, 

Threw him his bdw, leapt from the 
shore 

Into the boat beside the brave, 

And sat her down and seized the 
oar, 

And never question’d, made replies, 

Or moved her lips, or raised her 
eyes. . 


His breast was like a gate of 
brass, 
His brow was like a gather’d storm; 
There is no chisell’d stone that 
has 
So stately and complete a form, 


118 The Last 


In sinew, arm, and every part, 
In all the galleries of art. 


Gray, bronzed, and naked to the 
waist, 
He stood half halting in the prow, 
With quiver bare and idle bow, 
The warm sea fondled with the 
shore, 
And laid his white face to the sands, 
His daughter sat with her sad face 
Bent on the wave, with her two 
hands 
Held tightly to the dripping oar; 
And as she sat, her dimpled knee 
Bent lithe as wand or willow tree, 
So round and full, so rich and free, 
That no one would have ever 
known 
That it had either joint or bone. 


Her eyes were black, her face was 

brown, 

Her breasts were bare and there fell 
down 

Such wealth of hair, it almost hid 

The two, in its rich jetty fold— 

Which I had sometime fain forbid, 

They were so richer, fuller far 

Than any polish’d bronzes are, 

And richer hued than any gold. 

On her brown arms and her brown 
hands 

Were bars of gold and golden bands, 

Rough hammer’d from the virgin 
ore, 

So heavy, they could hold no more. 


I wonder now, I wonder’d then, 
That men who fear’d not gods nor 
men 


Caschastas : 
Laid no rude hands at all on her,— 
I think she had a dagger slid { 
Down in her silver’d wampum belt. 
It might have been, instead of hilt, 
A flashing diamond hurry-hid 
That I beheld—I could not know 
For certain, we did hasten so; 
And I know now less sure th; 
then; 
And years drown memories of me 
Some things have happened singe| 
and then 
This happen’d years and years ago 


“Go, go!’’ the captain cried, a1 
smote | 
With sword and boot the swayil 
boat, | 
Until it quiver’d as at sea | 
And brought the old chief to } 
knee. | 
He turn’d his face, and turning ros) 
With hand raised fiercely to t| 
foes: 
‘Yes, I will go, last of my race, | 
Push’d by you robbers ruthlessly 
Into the hellows of thegea, 
From this my last, last restit) 
place. 
Traditions of my fathers say 
A feeble few reath’d for this land, 
And we reach’d them a welcon’ 
hand | 
Of old, wpon another shore; | 
INow they are strong, we weak ¢ 
they,- | 
And they have driven us before | 
Their faces, from that sea to this: 
Then marvel not if we have sped 
Sometime an arrow as we fled, 
So keener than a serpent’s kiss.”’ 


— 


ff 


: The Last Taschastas 


Te turn’d a time unto the sun 

at lay half hidden in the sea, 

in his hollows rock’d asleep, 
‘trembled and breathed heavily; 
en arch’d his arm, as you have 
| done, 

¢ sharp masts piercing through the 
_ deep. 

\shore or kind ship met his eye, 
isle, or sail, or anything, 

ve white sea gulls on dipping wing, 
d mobile sea and molten sky. 


‘Parewell!—push seaward, child!” 
he cried, 
d quick the paddle-strokes replied. 
ce lightning from the panther-skin, 
lat bound his loins round about 
:snatch’d a poison’d arrow out, 
at like a snake lay hid within, 
dtwang’d his bow. The captain 
fell 
one on his face, and such a yell 
triumph from that savage rose 
man may never hear again. 
s stoad as standing on the main, 
1e topmost main, in proud repose, 
1d shook his clench’d fist at his 
| foes, 
id call’d, and cursed them every 
one. 
1» heeded not the shouts and shot 
iat follow’d him, but grand and 
grim 
‘ood up against the level sun; 
ad, standing so, seem’d in his ire 
grander than some ship on fire. 


119 


And when the sun had left the 

sea, 

That laves Abrup, and Blanco laves, 

And left the land to death and me, 

The only thing that I could see 

Was, ever as the light boat lay 

High lifted on the white-back’d 
waves, 

A head as gray and toss’d as they. 


We raised the dead and from his 
hands 
Pick’d out some shells, clutched as he 
AAT 
And two by two bore him away, 
And wiped his lips of blood and 
sands. 


We bent and scooped a shallow home, 

And laid him warm-wet in his 
blood, 

Just as the lifted tide a-flood 

Came charging in with mouth a- 
foam: 

And as we turn’d, the sensate thing 

Reached up, lick’d out its foamy 


tongue, 

Lick’d out its tongue and tasted 
blood; 

The white lips to the red earth 
clung 


An instant, and then loosening 

All hold just like a living thing, 

Drew back sad-voiced and shuddering, 

All stained with blood, a stripéd 
flood. 


E20 


JOAQUIN MURIETTA 


Glintings of day in the darkness, 
Flashings of flint and steel, 

Blended in gossamer texture 
The ideal and the real, 

Limn’d like the phantom ship shadow 
Crowding up under the keel. 


I stand beside the mobile sea, 

And sails are spread, and sails are 
furl’d; 

From farthest corners of the world, 

And fold like white wings wearily. 

Some ships go up, and some go 
down 

In haste, like traders in a town. 


Afar at sea some white ships flee, 

With arms stretch’d like a ghost’s to 
me, 

And cloud-like sails are blown and 
curl’d, 

Then glide down to the under world. 

As if blown bare in winter blasts 

Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts 

Are rising from the restless sea. 

I seem to see them gleam and shine 

With clinging drops of dripping 
brine. 

Broad still brown wings flit here and 
there, 

Thin sea-blue wings wheel every- 
where, 

And white wings whistle through the 
air: 

I hear a thousand sea gulls call, 

And San Francisco Bay is white 

And blue with sail and sea and light. 


Joaquin H#urietta 
} | 


Behold the ocean on the beact: 
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer, 
I hear a moan as of despair, 
While far at sea do toss and reac| 
Some things so like white plea| 

hands | 
The ocean’s thin and hoary hair | 
Is trail’d along the silver’d sands] 
At every sigh and sounding moat| 
The very birds shriek in distress | 
And sound the ocean’s monotone 
’Tis not a place for mirthfulness, 
But meditation deep, and pray ea 
And kneelings on the salted sod, 
Where man must own his littlend| 
And know the mightiness of God! 


Dared I but say a prophecy, 
As sang the holy men of old, 
Of rock-built cities yet to be 
Along these shining shores of golc, 
Crowding athirst into the sea, 
What wondrous marvels might | 
told! 
Enough, to know that empire her«| 
Shall burn her loftiest, bright, 
y 
] 


——S SS 


star; 
Here art and eloquence shall reigr| 
As o’er the wolf-rear’d realm of ol 
Here learn’d and famous from afa’ 
To pay their noble court, shall cor! 
And shall not seek or see in vain, | 
But look and look with won 

dumb. ! 


Afar the bright Sierras lie 
A swaying line of snowy white, 
A fringe of heaven hung in sight 
Against the blue base of the sky. 


Joaquin Murietta 


I look along each gaping gorge, 

I hear a thousand sounding strokes 

|Like giants rending giant oaks, 

!Or brawny Vulcan at his forge; 

I see pickaxes flash and shine; 

Hear great wheels whirling in a 
mine. 

Here winds a thick and yellow 
thread, 

|A moss’d and silver stream instead; 

|And trout that leap’d its rippled 

m= tide 

\Have turn’d upon their sides and 

died. 


Lo! when the last pick in the mine 
Lies rusting red with idleness, 
And rot yon cabins in the mold, 
And wheels no more croak in distress, 
And tall pines reassert command, 
‘Sweet bards along this sunset shore 
Their mellow melodies will pour; 
Will charm as charmers very wise, 
‘Will strike the harp with master 
hand, 
Will sound unto the vaulted skies, 
The valor of these men of old— 
) These mighty men of ’Forty-nine; 
/ Will sweetly sing and proudly say, 
‘Long, long agone there was a day 
When there were giants in the land. 


° 


‘Now who rides rushing on the sight 
Hard down yon rocky long defile, 
Swift as an eagle in his flight, 

Fierce as winter’s storm at aight 
Blown from the bleak Sierra’s 
height? 

‘Such reckless rider!—I do ween 

No mortal man his like has seen. 


121 


And yet, but for his long serape 

All flowing loose, and black as crape, 
And long silk locks of blackest hair 
All streaming wildly in the breeze, 
You might believe him in a chair, 
Or chatting at some country fair, 
He rides so grandly at his ease. 


But now he grasps a tighter rein, 
A red rein wrought in golden chain, 
And in his tapidaros stands, 

Turns, shouts defiance at his foe. 

And now he calmly bares his brow 

As if to challenge fate, and now 

His hand drops to his saddle-bow 

And clutches something gleaming 
there 

As if to something more than dare. 


The stray winds lift the raven curls, 
Soft as a fair Castilian girl’s, 
And bare a brow so manly, high, 
Its every feature does belie 
The thought he is compell’d to fly; 
A brow as open as the sky 
On which you gaze and gaze again 
As on a picture you have seen 
And often sought to see in vain; 
A brow of blended pride and pain, 
That seems to hold a tale of woe 
Or wonder, that you fain would 

know 

A boy’s brow, cut as with a knife, 
With many a dubious deed in life. 


Again he grasps his glitt’ring rein, 
And, wheeling like a hurricane, 
Defying wood, or stone, or flood, 

Is dashing down the gorge again. 
Oh, never yet has prouder steed 
Borne master nobler in his need! 


[22 | Joaquin Murietta | 


There is a glory in his eye I feel a fierce impulse to leap 
That seems to dare and to defy Adown the beetling precipice, 
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race. Like some lone, lost, uncertain star; | 
His body is the type of speed, To plunge into a place unknown, | 
While from his nostril to his heel And win a world, all, all my own; 
Are muscles as if made of steel. Or if I might not meet such bliss, 


At least escape the curse of this. 
What crimes have made that red 


hand red? I gaze again. A gleaming star 
What wrongs have written that | Shines back as from some mossy well 

young. face | Reflected from blue fields afar. 
With lines of thought so out of | Brown hawks are wheeling here and 

place? there, | 
Where flies he? And from whence | And up and down the broken wall 

has fled? Cling clumps of dark green chaparral, 
And what his lineage and race? While from the rent rocks, grey and | 
What glitters in his heavy belt, bare, 
And from his furr’d cantenas | Blue junipers hang in the air. 

gleam? ; 
What on his bosom that doth seem Here, cedars sweep the stream and | 
A diamond bright or dagger’s hilt? here, | 
The iron hoofs that still resound Among the boulders moss’d and 
Like thunder from the yielding brown 

ground That time and storms have toppled 
Alone reply; and now the plain, down 
Quick as you breathe and gaze | From towers undefiled by man, 

again, Low cabins nestle as in fear, : 
Is won, and all pursuit is vain. And look no taller than a span. 


From low and shapeless chimneys rise 
Some tall straight columns of blue 


I stand upon a mountain rim, smoke, 

Stone-paved and pattern’d as a | And weld them to the bluer skies; 

street; While sounding down the somber 
A rock-lipped cafion plunging south, gorge 
As if it were earth’s open’d mouth, I hear the steady pickax stroke, 
Yawns deep and darkling at my | Asif upon a flashing forge. 

feet; 
So deep, so distant, and so dim 
Its waters wind, a yellow thread, Another scene, another sound!— 
And call so faintly and so far, Sharp shots are fretting through the | 


I turn aside my swooning head. alr, 


Joaquin 


Red knives are flashing everywhere, 
And here and there the yellow flood 
Is purpled with warm smoking blood. 
‘The brown hawk swoops low to the 
ground, 
‘And nimble chipmunks, small and 
still, 
‘Dart striped lines across the sill 
That manly feet shall press no more. 
The flume lies warping in the sun, 
The pan sits empty by the door, 
The pickax on its bedrock floor 
Lies rusting in the silent mine. 
There comes no single sound nor 
sign 
Of life, beside yon monks in brown 
That dart their dim shapes up and 
down 
The rocks that swelter in the sun; 
But dashing down yon rocky spur, 
Where scarce a hawk would dare to 
whirr, 
A horseman holds his reckless flight. 
He wears a flowing black capote, 
While over all do flow and float 
Long locks of hair as dark as night, 
And hands are red that erst were 
white. 


All up and down the land today 
Black desolation and despair 
It seems have set and settled there, 
With none to frighten them away. 
Like sentries watching by the way 
Black chimneys topple in the air, 
And seem to say, Go back, beware! 
While up around the mountain’s 
a rim 
Are clouds of smoke, so still and 

grim 

They look as they are fasten’d there. 


$Hlurietta 


123 


A lonely stillness, so like death, 

So touches, terrifies all things, 

That even rooks that fly o’erhead 

Are hush’d, and seem to hold their 
breath, 

To fly with sullen, muffled wings, 

And heavy as if made of lead. 

Some skulls that crumble to the 
touch, 

Some joints of thin and chalk-like 
bone, 

A tall black chimney, all alone, 

That leans as if upon a crutch, 

Alone are left to mark or tell, 

Instead of cross or cryptic stone, 

Where Joaquin stood and brave men 
fell. 


The sun is red and flush’d and dry, 
And fretted from his weary beat 
Across the hot and desert sky, 

And swollen as from overheat, 
And failing too; for see, he sinks 
Swift as a ball of burnish’d ore: 
It may be fancy, but methinks 
He never fell so fast before. 


I hear the neighing of hot steeds, 
I see the marshaling of men 
That silent move among the trees 
As busily as swarming bees 
With step and stealthiness profound, 
On carpetings of spindled weeds, 
Without a syllable or sound 
Save clashing of their burnish’d arms, 
Clinking dull, deathlike alarms— 
Grim bearded men and brawny men 
That grope among the ghostly trees. 
Were ever silent men as these? 
Was ever somber forest deep 


124 

And dark as this? Here one might 
sleep 

While all the weary years went 
round, 


Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound. 


A stone’s throw to the right, a 
~ rock 
Has rear’d his head among the 
stars— 
An island in the upper deep— 
And on his front a thousand scars 
Of thunder’s crash and earthquake’s 
shock 
Are seam’d as if by sabre’s sweep 
Of gods, enraged that he should rear 
His front amid their realms of air. 


What moves along his beetling 

brow, 

So small, so indistinct and far, 

This side yon blazing evening star, 

Seen through that redwood’s shifting 
bough? 

A lookout on the world below? | 

A watcher for the friend—or foe? - 

This still troop’s sentry it must be, 

Yet seems no taller than my knee. 


But for the grandeur of this gloom, 
And for the chafing steeds’ alarms, 
And brown men’s sullen clash of 
arms, 
This were but as a living tomb. 
These weeds are spindled, pale and 
white, 
As if nor sunshine, life, nor light 
Had ever reach’d this forest’s heart. 
Above, the redwood boughs entwine 
As dense as copse of tangled vine— 
Above, so fearfully afar, 


Joaquin Murietta 


It seems as ’twere a lesser sky, . 

A sky without a moon or star, 

The moss’d boughs are so thick and 
high. 

At every lisp of leaf I start! 

Would I could hear a cricket trill, | 

Or hear yon sentry from his hill, | 

The place does seem so deathly still. 

But see a sudden lifted hand 


From one who still and | 


stands, 
With black serape and bloody hands, 
And coldly gives his brief command, 


They mount—away! 
heel 


Quick on his | 


He turns and grasps his gleaming | 


steel— 


Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss » 


An upturn’d face so sweetly fair, 

So sadly, saintly, purely rare, 

So rich in blessedness and bliss! 

I know she is not flesh and blood, 

But some sweet spirit of this wood; 

I know it by her wealth of hair, 

And step on the unyielding air; 

Her seamless robe of shining white, 

Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night; 

But over all and more than all 

That can be said or can befall, 

That tongue can tell or pen can 
trace, 

That wondrous witchery of face. 


Between the trees I see him stride 
To where a red steed fretting stands 
Impatient for his lord’s commands; 
And she glides noiseless at his side. 


One hand toys with her waving 
hair, 


1) 
} 


Joaquin 


Soft lifting from her shoulders bare; ° 


The other holds the loosen’d rein, 

And rests upon the swelling mane 

That curls the curved neck o’er and 
o’er, 

Like waves that swirl along the 
shore. 

He hears the last retreating sound 

Of iron on volcanic stone, 

‘That echoes far from peak to plain, 

And ’neath the dense wood’s sable 
zone, 

He peers the dark Sierras down. 


His hand forsakes her raven hair, 
His eyes have an unearthly glare; 
She shrinks and shudders at his side, 
Then lifts to his her moisten’d eyes, 
And only looks her sad replies. 

A sullenness his soul enthralls, 

A silence born of hate and pride: 

His fierce volcanic heart so deep 

Is stirr’d, his teeth, despite his will, 

Do chatter as if in a chill; 

His very dagger at his side 

Does shake and rattle in its sheath, 

As blades of brown grass in a gale 

Do rustle on the frosted heath: 

And yet he does not bend or weep, 
But sudden mounts, then leans him 

o’er 

To breathe her hot breath but once 

more. 

I do not mark the prison’d sighs, 
Ido not meet the moisten’d eyes, 
‘The while he leans him from his 

place 

Down to her sweet uplifted face. 


A low sweet melody is heard 
Like cooing of some Balize bird, 


sHurietta 


125 


So fine it does not touch the air, 
So faint it stirs not anywhere; 
Faint as the falling of the dew, 
Low as a pure unutter’d prayer, 
The meeting, mingling, as it were, 
In that one long, last, silent kiss 
Of souls in paradisal bliss. 


“You must not, shall not, shall not 
go! d 
To die and leave me here to die! 
Enough of vengeance, Love and I? 
I die for home and—Mexico.”’ 


He leans, he plucks her to his 
breast, 
As plucking Mariposa’s flower, 
And now she crouches in her rest 
As resting in some rosy bower. 


Erect, again he grasps the rein! 
I see his black steed plunge and poise 
And beat the air with iron feet, 
And curve his noble glossy neck, 
And toss on high his swelling mane, 
And leap—away! he spurns the rein! 
He flies so fearfully and fleet, 
But for the hot hoofs’ ringing noise 
’T would seem as if he were on wings. 
And they are gone! Gone like a 
breath, 
Gone like a white sail seen at night 
A moment, and then lost to sight; 
Gone like a star you look upon, 
That glimmers to a bead, a speck, 
Then softly melts into the dawn, 
And all is still and dark as death, 
And who shall sing, for who may 
know 
That mad, glad ride to Mexico? 


126 


BITS FROM INA, A DRAMA 


Sad song of the wind in _ the 
mountains 

And the sea wave of grass on the plain, 

That breaks in bloom foam by the 
fountains, 

And forests, that breaketh again 


On the mountains, as breaketh a main. 


Bold thoughts that were strong as the 
grizzltes, 
Now weak in thetr prison of words; 
Bright fancies that flash’d like the 
glaciers, 
Now dimm’d like the luster of birds, 
And butterflies huddled as herds. 


Sad symphony, wild and unmeasured, 


Weed warp, and woof woven in 
strouds, 

Strange truths that a stray soul had 
treasured, 

Truths seen as through folding of 
shrouds 


Or as stars though the rolling of clouds. 
SCENE I, 


A Hactenda near Tezcuco, Mexico. 
Young Don Carvos alone look- 
tng out on the moonlit mountain. 


Don CARLOs. 


Popocatapetl looms lone like an 
island, 
Above white cloud-waves that break 
up against him; 
Around him white buttes in the 
moonlight are flashing 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


Like silver tents pitch’d in the fair 
fields of heaven; 

While standing in line, in their snows 
everlasting, . | 

Flash peaks, as my eyes into heaven 
are lifted, 

Like mile-stones that lead to the city 
Eternal. 


Ofttine when the sun and the sea 
lay together, 
Red-welded as one, in their red bed of 
lovers, | 
Embracing and blushing like loves 
newly wedded, | 
I have trod on the trailing crape 
fringes of twilight, 
And stood there and listen’d, and 
lean’d with lips parted, 
Till lordly peaks wrapp’d them, as. 
chill night blew over, 
In great cloaks of sable, like = | 
somber Spaniards, | 
And stalk’d from my presence down 
night’s corridors. | 


When the red-curtained West has. 

bent red as with weeping 

Low over the couch where the prem 
day lay dying, 

I have stood with brow lifted, con- 
fronting the mountains | 

That held their white faces of snow in 
the heavens, 

And said, ‘‘It is theirs to array them 
so purely, 

Because of their nearness to the. 
temple eternal’’: 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


: 

And childlike have said, “They are 
fair resting places 

For the dear weary dead on their way 
up to heaven.” 


. But my soul is not with you to- 
night, mighty mountains: 

It is held to the levels of earth by an 
angel 

‘Far more than a star, earth fallen or 
unfall’n, 

Yet fierce in her follies and head- 
strong and stronger 

Than streams of the sea running in 
with the billows. 


Very well. Let him woo, let him 
thrust his white whiskers 


And lips pale and purple with death, 


in between u;3; 

Let her wed, as she wills, for the gold 
of the graybeard. 

I will set my face for you, O moun- 
tains, my brothers, 

‘For I yet have my honor, my con- 
science and freedom, 

My fleet-footed mustang, and pistols 
rich silver’d; 

I will turn as the earth turns her back 
on the sun, 

But return to the light of her eyes 

never more, 

While noons have a night and white 
seas have a shore. 


INA, approaching. 
INA. 


“T have come, dear Don Carlos, to 
say you farewell, 


127 


I shall wed with Don Castro at dawn 


of to-morrow, 

And be all his own—firm, honest and 
faithful. 

I have promised this thing; that I 
will keep my promise 

You who do know me care never to 
question. 

I have mastered myself to say this 
thing to you; 

Hear me: be strong, then, and say 
adieu bravely; 

The world is his own who will brave 
its bleak hours. 

Dare, then, to confront the cold days 
in their column; 

As they march down upon you, stand, 
hew them to pieces, 

One after another, as you would a 
fierce foeman, 

Till not one abideth between two true 
bosoms.” 


[Don CarLos, with a laugh of scorn, 
flies from the veranda, mounts 
horse, and disappears.] 


INA (looking out into the night, after a 
long silence). 


How doleful the night hawk screams 
in the heavens, 

How dismally gibbers the gray coy- 
ote! 

Afar to the south now the turbulent 
thunder, 

Mine equal, my brother, my soul’s 
one companion, 

Talks low in his sleep like a giant deep 
troubled; 

Talks fierce in accord with my own 
stormy spirit, 


128 


ys a a 
ScENE IIT. 


Sunset on a spur of Mount Hood. 
LAMONTE contemplates the scene. 


LAMONTE. 


A flushed and weary messenger a- 
west 

Is standing at the half-closed door of 
day, 

As he would say, Good night; and 
now his bright 

Red cap he tips to me and turns his 
face, 

Were it an unholy thing to say, an 
angel now 

Beside the door stood with uplifted 
seal? 

Behold the door seal’d with that 
blood red seal 

Now burning, spreading o’er the 
mighty West. 

Never again shall that dead day 
arise 

Therefrom, but must be born and 
come anew. 


The tawny, solemn Night, child of 

the East, 

Her mournful robe trails o’er the dis- 
tant woods, 

And comes this way with firm and 
stately step. 

Afront, and very high, she wears a 
shield, 

A plate of silver, and upon her brow 

The radiant Venus burns a pretty 
lamp. 

Behold! how in her gorgeous flow of 
hair 


Bits trom Ina, @ Drama 


‘7 | 

Do ‘gleam a million mellow yell) 
gems, 

That spill their molten gold upon th 
dewy grass. 

Now throned on boundless plain 
and gazing down 

So calmly on the red-seal’d tomb o 
day, 

She rests her form against the Rock 
Mountains, 

And rules with silent power a peaceft 
world. 


"Tis midnight now. The bent | 

broken moon, 

All batter’d, black, as from a thou 
sand battles, 

Hangs silent on the purple walls o 
heaven. 

The angel warrior, guard of the gate, 
eternal, 

In battle-harness girt, sleeps on th 
field: 

But when tomorrow comes, whei 
wicked men 

That fret the patient earth are al) 
astir, 

He will resume his shield, and, facia 
earthward, 

The gates of heaven guard from sin. 
of earth. 


’Tis morn. 
now leaps 
The eastern wall of earth, bright swore 
in hand, 

And clad in flowing robe of mellow 
light, | 
Like to a king that has regain’d his 

throne, 


Behold the kingly day 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


ve warms his drooping subjects into 
joy, 

hat rise renewed to do him fealty, 

nd rules with pomp the universal 
world. 


Jon CARLOS ascends the mountain, 
gesticulating and talking to himself. 


Don CARLOS. 


Oh, for a name that black-eyed 
maids would sigh 
‘nd lean with parted lips at mention 
of; 
“hat I should seem so tall in minds of 


men 

(hat I might walk beneath the arch 
of heaven, 

\nd pluck the ripe red stars as | 
pass’d on, 

\s favor’d guests do pluck the purple 
grapes 

That hang above the humble entrance 

way 

Df palm-thatch’d mountain inn of 
Mexico. 


_ Oh, I would give the green leaves of 
my life 

For something grand, for real and 
undream’d deeds! 

To wear a mantle, broad and richly 
gemm’d 

‘As purple heaven fringed with gold at 

sunset; 

To wear a crown as dazzling as the 
sun, 

And, holding up a scepter lightning- 
charged, 

9 


129 


Stride out among the stars as I once 
strode 

A barefoot boy among the buttercups. 

Alas! I am so restless. There is 

that 

Within me doth rebel and rise against 

The all I am and half I see in others; 

And were’t not for contempt of cow- 
ard act 

Of flying all defeated from the world, 

As if I feared and dared not face its 
ills, 

I should ere this have known, known 
more or less 

Than any flesh that frets this sullen 
earth. 

I know not where such thoughts will 
lead me to: 

I have had fear that they would drive 
me mad, 

And then have flattered my weak self, 
and said 

The soul’s outgrown the body—yea, 
the soul 

Aspires to the stars, and in its strug- 
gles upward 

Makes the dull flesh quiver as an 
aspen. 


LAMONTE. 
What waif is this cast here upon my 
shore, 
From seas of subtle and most selfish 
men? 


Don CARLOS. 


Of subtle and most selfish men!— 
ah, that’s the term! 


130 


And if you be but earnest in your 
spleen, 

And other sex across man’s shoulders 
lash, 

I’ll stand beside you on this crag and 
howl 

And hurl my clenched fists down upon 
their heads, 

Till I am hoarse as yonder cataract. 


LAMONTE. 


Why, no, my friend, I’ll not con- 

sent to that. 

No true man yet has ever woman 
cursed. 

And I—I do not hate my fellow man, 

For man by nature bears within 
himself 

Nobility that makes him half a god; 

But as in somewise he hath made 
himself, 

His universal thirst for gold and 
pomp, 

And purchased fleeting fame and 
bubble honors, 

Forgetting good, so mocking helpless 
age, 

I hold him but a sorry worm indeed; 

And so have turn’d me quietly 
aside 

To know the majesty of peaceful 
woods. 


Don Cartos (as if alone). 


The fabled font of youth led many 
fools, 
Zealous in its pursuit, to hapless 
death; 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


And yet this thirst for fame, this h 
ambition, | 

This soft-toned syren-tongue, e 
chanting Fame, | 

Doth lead me headlong on to equ 
folly, 

Like to a wild bird charm’d by shi 
ing coils 

And swift mesmeric glance of dead 
snake: 

I would not break the charm, but Ww) 
a world 

Or die with curses blistering m 
lips. 


LAMONTE. 


Give up ambition, petty pride— | 
By pride the angels fell. 


Don CARLOs. 


By pride they reached a place fror 
whence to fall. | 


LAMONTE. 


You startle me! I am unused ti 
hear 

Men talk these fierce and bitte 
thoughts; and yet 

In closed recesses of my soul was 
once | 

A dark and gloomy chamber where 
they dwelt. 

Give up ambition—yea, crush 4 
thoughts 

As you would crush from hearth a 


scorpion brood; 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


‘or, mark me well, they'll get the 


, mastery, 

nd drive you on to death—or worse, 
across 

thousand ruin’d homes and broken 

| hearts. 


Don CARLOS. 


Give up ambition! Oh, rather 
than to die 

ind glide a lonely, nameless, shiver- 
ing ghost 

YJown time’s dark tide of utter 
nothingness, 


'd write a name in blood and or- 
phans’ tears. 

fhe temple-burner wiser was than 
kings. 


LAMONTE. 


- And would you dare the curse of 
man and— 


Don CARLOS. 


_ Dare the curse of man! 
I’d dare the fearful curse of God! 
I'd build a pyramid of whitest skulls, 
And step therefrom unto the spotted 
___ moon, 
And thence to stars, and thence to 
central suns. 
‘Then with one grand and mighty leap 
_. would land 
Unhinder’d on the shining tire of 
heaven, 
And, sword in hand, unbared and 
unabash’d, 


131 


Would stand bold forth in presence of 
the God 

Of gods, and on the jewel’d inner 
side 

The walls of heaven, carve with keen 
Damascus steel 

And highest up, a grand and titled 
name 

That time nor tide could touch or 
tarnish ever. 


LAMONTE. 


Seek not to crop above the heads of 
men 
To be a better mark for envy’s 
shafts. 
Come to my peaceful home, and leave 
behind 
These stormy thoughts and daring 


aspirations. 

All earthly power is but a thing 
comparative. 

Is not a petty chief of some lone 
isle, 

With half a dozen nude and starving 
subjects, 

As much a king as he the Czar of 
Rusk? 

In yonder sweet retreat and balmy 
place 

I'll abdicate, and you be chief 
indeed. 

There you will reign and tell me of 
the world, 

Its life and lights, its sins and sickly 
shadows. 

The pheasant will reveille beat at 
morn, 

And rouse us to the battle of the 
day. 


132 


My swarthy subjects will in circle 


sit, 

And, gazing on your noble presence, 
deem 

You great indeed, and call you chief 
of chiefs: 

And, knowing no one greater than 
yourself 

In all the leafy borders of your 
realm, 

’Gainst what can pride or poor ambi- 
tion chafe? 


’Twill be a kingdom without king, 


save you, 

More broad than that the cruel Cortes 
won, 

With subjects truer than he ever 
knew, 

That know no law but only nature's 
law, 

And no religion know but that of 
love. 

There truth and beauty are, for there 
is Nature, 

Serene and simple. She will be our 
priestess, 

And in her calm and uncomplaining 
face 

We two will read her rubric and be 
wise. ... 


Don Cartos. 


Why, truly now, this fierce and 
broken land, 
Seen through your eyes, assumes a 
fairer shape. 
Lead up, for you are nearer God than 
fT; 


Bits trom Ina, A Drama 


SCENE III. 
INA, in black, alone. Midnight. 
INA. 


[I weep? I weep? I laugh 

think of it! 

I lift my dark brow to the breath | 
the ocean, 

Soft kissing me now like the lips. 
my mother, 

And laugh low and long as I cra 
the brown grasses, 

To think I should weep! Why, 
never wept—never, 

Not even in punishments dealt me- 
childhood! 

Yea, all of my wrongs and my bitte! 
ness buried | 

In my brave baby heart, all alone an 
unfriended. 

And I pitied, with proud and disdait 
fulest pity, 

The weak who would weep, and 
laugh’d at the folly 

Of those who could laugh and mak 
merry with playthings. 


Nay, I will not weep now over tha 
I desired. 
Desired? Yes: 
confess it, 
Ah, too, to the world should it ques 
tion too closely, 
And bathe me and sport in a deep sez 
of candor. a | 


I to myself dar 


Let the world be deceived; it insists 
upon it: 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


Let it bundle me round in its black 
woe-garments; 

But I, self with self—my free soul 
fearless— 

Am frank as the sun, nor the toss of a 
copper 


Care I if the world call it good or 


evil. 

{ am glad tonight, and in new-born 
freedom 

Forget all earth with my old 
companions,— 

Themoonand the stars and the moon- 
clad ocean. 

[ am face to face with the stars that 
know me, 

And gaze as I gazed in the eyes of my 
mother, 

Porgetting the city and the coarse 
things in it; 


For there’s naught but God in the 
shape of mortal, 

Save one—my wandering, wild boy- 
lover— 

That I esteem worth a stale banana. 


The hair hangs heavy and is warm on 
my shoulder, 

And is thick with the odors of balm 
and of blossom, 

The great bay sleeps with the ships on 

. her bosom; 

Through the Golden Gate, to the left 

__ hand yonder, 

The white sea lies in a deep sleep, 
breathing, 

The father of melody, mother of 

_- measure. 


133 
ScENE IV. 


A wood by a rivulet on a spur of 
Mount Hood, overlooking the 
Columbia. LAMONTE and DON 
CARLOS, on thesr way to the camp, 
are reposing under the shadow of 
the forest. Some deer are observed 
descending to the brook, and DON 
CARLOS Seizes his rifle. 


LAMONTE. 


Nay, nay, my friend, strike not 

from your covert, 

Strike like a serpent in the grass well 
hidden? 

What, steal into their homes, and, 
when they, thirsting, 

And all unsuspecting, come down in 
couples 

And dip brown muzzles in the mossy 
brink, 

Then shoot them down without 
chance to fly-— 

The only means that God has given 
them, 

Poor, unarm’d mutes, to baffle man’s 
cunning? 

Ah, now I see you had not thought of 
this! 

The hare is fleet, and is most quick at 
sound, 

His coat is changed with the changing 
fields; 

Yon deer turn brown when the leaves 
turn brown; 

The dog has teeth, the cat has 
talons, 

A man has craft and sinewy arms: 


134 


All things that live have some means 
of defense 
All, all—save only fair lovely woman. 


Don CARLOs. 


Nay, she has her tongue; is armed 
to the teeth. 


LAMONTE. 


Thou Timon, what can 'scape your 

bitterness? 

But for this sweet content of Nature 
here, 

Upon whose breast we now recline 
and rest, 

Why, you might lift your voice and 
rail at her! 


Don CARLOS. 


Oh, I am out of patience with your 

faith! 

What! She content and peaceful, 
uncomplaining? 

I’ve seen her fretted like a lion 
caged, 

Chafe like a peevish woman cross’d 
and churl’d, 

Tramping and champing like a whelp- 
less bear; 

Have seen her weep till earth was wet 
with tears, 

Then turn all smiles—a jade that won 
her point? 

Have seen her tear the hoary hair of 
ocean, 

While he, himself full half a world, 
would moan 


Bits trom Jnua, A Drama 


: 
/ 
: 


And roll and toss his clumsy hands, 


day 

To earth like some great helpl 
babe, 

Rude-rock’d and cradled by an 1 
kind nurse, 

Then stain her snowy hem with sa 
sea tears; 

And when the peaceful, mellow mo 
came forth, 

To walk and meditate among t 
blooms 

That make so blest the upper pury 
fields, » 

This wroth dyspeptic sea ran aft 
her 

With all his soul, as if to pour a 
self, | 

All sick and helpless, in her snoy 
lap. 

Content! Oh, she be cracked i 


ribs of earth 
And made her shake poor ae | 
man from off 
Her back, e’en as a grizzly shakes tt 
hounds; | 
She has upheaved her rocky spit 
against 
The flowing robes of the eternal God 


LAMONTE. 


There once was one of nature lik 
to this: 

He stood a barehead boy upon a cli. 

Pine-crown’d, that hung high o’er 
bleak north sea. 

His long hair stream’d and flashe 
like yellow silk, 

His sea-blue eyes lay deep and stilla 
lakes 


| Bits from Ina, A Drama 


Yerhung by mountains, arch’d in 
virgin snow; 

nd far astray, and friendless and 
alone, 

. tropic bird blown through the north 
frost wind, 


fe stood above the sea in the cold 


white moon, 

fis thin face lifted to the flashing 

Waectars. 

Te talk’d familiarly and face to face 

Vith the eternal God, in solemn 
night, 

Yonfronting Him with free and flip- 
pant air 

is one confronts a merchant o’er his 

counter, 

in vehement blasphemy did 

say: 

‘God, put aside this world—show me 
another! 

x0d, this world’s but a cheat—hand 
down another! 

_ will not buy—not have it as a 


gift. 


ind 


ut this aside and hand me down 


another— 


Another, and another, still another, 
ill I have tried the fairest world that 


hangs 
Jpon the walls and broad dome of 
your shop. 


for I am proud of soul and regal 


born, 


And will not have a cheap and cheat- 


| 


ing world.”’ 
Don CARLOS. 


The noble youth! 
him another? 


So God gave 


135 


LAMONTE. 


A bear, as in old time, came from 

the woods 

And tare him there upon that storm- 
swept cliff— 

A grim and grizzled bear, like unto 
hunger. 

A tall ship sail’d adown the sea next 
morn, 

And, standing with his glass upon the 
prow, 

The captain saw a vulture ona cliff, 

Gorging, and pecking, stretching his 
long neck 

Bracing his raven plumes against the 
wind, 

Fretting the tempest with his sable 
feathers. 


A Young Port ascends the mountain 
and approaches. 


Don CARLOS. 


Ho! ho! whom have we here? 
Talk of the devil, 
And he’s at hand. Say, who are you, 
and whence? 


POET. 


I ama poet, and dwell down by the 
sea. 


Don CARLOS. 
A poet! a poet, forsooth! A hun- 
gry fool! 
Would you know what it means to be 
a poet now? 


136 

It is to want a friend, to want a 
home, 

A country, money,—ay, to want a 
meal. 


It is not wise to be a poet now, 

For, oh, the world it has so modest 
grown 

It will not praise a poet to his face, 

But waits till he is dead some hundred 
years, 

Then uprears marbles cold and stupid 
as itself. 


[POET rises to go.] 
Don CarRLos. 


Why, what’s the haste? You'll 
reach there soon enough. 


POET. 
Reach where? 
Don CARLOS. 


The inn to which all earthly roads 

do tend: 

The ‘‘neat apartments furnish’d—see 
within’’; 

The “‘furnish’d rooms for quiet, single 
gentlemen’’; 

The narrow six-by-two where you 
will lie 

With cold blue nose up-pointing to 
the grass, 

Labell’d and box’d, and ready all for 
shipment. 


POET (loosening hair and letting fall a 
mantle), 


Bits from Ina, A Drama 


Ah me! my Don Carlos, look kin 

upon me! 

With my hand on your arm and) i 
dark brow lifted 

Full level to yours, do you not n 
know me? 

’Tis I, your INA, whom you loved 
the ocean, | 

In the warm-spiced winds from t 
far Cathay. 


Don Cartos (bitterly). 


With the smell of the dead man st 

upon you! 

Your dark hair wet from his deat 
damp forehead! 

You are not my Ina, for she is” 
memory, | 

A marble chisell’d, in my heart’s dai 
chamber 

Set up for ever, and naught ce 
change her; 

And you are a stranger, and the ‘gu 
between us 

Is wide as the plains, and as deep i é 
Pacific. | 


And now, good night. In you 
serape folded | 

Hard by in the light of the pine-knc 
fire, 

Sleep you as sound as you will b 
welcome; 

And on the morrow—now mark me 
madam— 

When tomorrow comes, why, you wit 
turn you 

To the right or left as did Fathe 
Abram. 


Good night, for ever and for aye, 

| good by; 

My bitter is sweet and your truth isa 
lie. 


Ina (letting go his arm and stepping 


back). 
Well, then! ’tis over, and ’tis well 
thus ended; 
I am well escaped from my life’s 
devotion. 
The waters of bliss are a waste of 
bitterness; 
The day of joy I did join hands 
over, 


As a bow of promise when my years 
were weary, 

And set high up as a brazen serpent 

To look upon when I else had 


fainted 

In burning deserts, while you sipp’d 
ices 

And snowy sherbets, and roam’d 
unfetter’d, 

Is a deadly asp in the fruit and 
flowers 

That you in your bitterness now bear 
to me; 


Eben So 


137 


But its fangs unfasten and it glides 
down from me, 

From a Cleopatra of cold white 
marble. 


I have but done what I would do 

over, 

Did I find one worthy of so much 
devotion; 

And, standing here with my clean 
hands folded 

Above a bosom whose crime is 
courage, 

The only regret that my heart dis- 
covers 

Is that I should do and have dared so 
greatly 

For the love af one who deserved so 
little. 


Nay! say no more, nor attempt to 

approach me! 

This ten feet line lying now between 
us 

Shall never be less while the land has 
measure. 

See! night is forgetting the east in the 
heavens; 

The birds pipe shrill and the beasts 
howl answer. 


EVEN SO 


Sierras, and eternal tents 
Of snow that flash o’er battlements 
_ Of mountains! My land of the sun, 
| Am TI not true? have I not done 
_ All things for thine, for thee alone, 
Osun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? 
Be my reward some little place 
To pitch my tent, some tree and vine 
Where I may sit with lifted face, 


And drink the sun as drinking wine: 

Where sweeps the Oregon, and where 

White storms carouse on perfumed 
aur. 


In the shadows a-west of the sunset 
mountains, 

Where old-time giants had dwelt and 
peopled, 


138 


And built up cities and castled battle- 
ments, 

And rear’d up pillars that pierced the 
heavens, 

A poet dwelt of the book of Na- 
ture— 

An ardent lover of the pure and 
beautiful, 

Devoutest lover of the true and 
beautiful, 

Profoundest lover of the grand and 
beautiful— 

With heart all impulse, and intensest 


passion, 

Who believed in love as in God eter- 
nal— 

A dream while the waken’d world 
went over, 

An Indian summer of the singing 
seasons; 

And he sang wild songs like the wind 
in cedars, 

Was tempest-toss’d as the pines, yet 
ever 

As fix’d in faith as they in the moun- 
tains. 


He had heard of a name as one 

hears of a princess, 

Her glory had come unto him in 
stories; 

From afar he had look’d as entranced 
upon her; 

He gave her name to the wind in 
measures, 

And he heard her name in ‘the deep- 
voiced cedars, 

And afar in the winds rolling on like 
the billows, 

Her name in the name of another for 
ever 


Eben So 


Gave all his numbers their grandes) 
strophes; 

Enshrined her image in his heart 
high temple, 

And saint-like held her, too sacre¢ 
for mortal. 


He came to fall like a king of | 

forest 

Caught in the strong storm arms a 
the wrestler; 

Forgetting his songs, his crags and his 
mountains, 

And nearly his God, in his wild deeg 
passion; 

And when he had won her and turn’d 
him homeward, 


With the holiest pledges love gives its 


lover, 
The mountain route was as strewn, 
with roses. 


Can high love then be a thing un- 


holy, 


To make us better and bless’d su- 


premely? 

The day was fix’d for the feast | 
nuptials; 

He crazed with impatience at the 
tardy hours; 

He flew in the face of old Time as a. 
tyrant; 


He had fought the days that stood 


still between them, 


Fought one by one, as you fight witha. 


foeman, 
Had they been animate and sensate 
beings. 


At last then the hour came cola 
forward. 


| 
| 


| 


When Mars was trailing his lance on 

| the mountains 

He rein’d his steed and look’d down 
in the cafion 

To where she dwelt, with a heart of 

. fire. 

He kiss’d his hand to the smoke slow 

| curling, 

Then bow’d his head in devoutest 

| blessing. 

His spotted courser did plunge and 
fret him 

Beneath his gay silken-fringed carona 

And toss his neck in a black mane 

| banner’d; 

Then all afoam, plunging iron-footed, 

‘Dash’d him down with a wild im- 
patience. 


A coldness met him, like the breath 

of a cavern, 

As he joyously hasten’d across the 
threshold. 

She came, and coldly ‘she spoke and 
scornful, 

In answer to warm and impulsive 
passion. 

All things did array them in shapes 

| most hateful, 

Andlife did seem but a jest intolerable. 

‘He dared to question her why this 


estrangement: 

She spoke with a srange and stiff 
indifference, 

_And bade him go on all alone life’s 


| journey. 


Then stern and tall he did stand up 

| before her, 

And gaze dark-brow’d through the 
low narrow casement, 


ben Soa 


139 


For a time, as if warring in thought 
with a passion; 

Then, crushing hard down the hot 
welling bitterness, 

He folded his form in a sullen silent- 
ness, 

And turned for ever away from her 
presence; 

Bearing his sorrow like some great 
burden, 

Like a black nightmare in his hot 
heart muffled; 

With his faith in the truth of woman 
broken, 


"Mid Theban pillars, where sang 


the Pindar, 

Breathing the breath of the Grecian 
islands, 

Breathing in spices and olive and 
myrtle, 

Counting the caravans, curl’d and 
snowy, 

Slow journeying over his head to 
Mecca 

Or the high Christ land of most holy 
memory, 


Counting the clouds through the 
boughs above him, 

That brush’d white marbles that time 
had chisel’d 

And rear’d as tombs on the great 
dead city, 

Letter’d with solemn but unread 
moral— 

A poet rested in the red-hot summer. 

He took no note of the things about 
him, 

But dream’d and counted the clouds 
above him; 


140 


His soul was troubled, and his sad 
heart’s Mecca 

Was a miner’s home far over the 
ocean, 

Banner’d by pines that did brush 
blue heaven. 


When the sun went down on the 
bronzed Morea, 
He read to himself from the lines of 


sorrow 

That came as a wail from the one he 
worshipp’d, 

Sent over the seas by an old compan- 
ion: 

They spoke no word of him, or re- 
membrance. 

And he was most sad, for he felt for- 
gotten, 

And said: ‘‘In the leaves of her fair 


heart’s album 

She has cover’d my face with the 
face of another. 

Let the great sea lift like a wall be- 
tween us, 

High-back’d, with his mane of white 
storms for ever— 

I shall learn to love, I shall wed my 
sorrow, 

I shall take as a spouse the days that 
are perish’d; 

I shall dwell in a land where the 
march of genius 

Made tracks in marble in the days of 
giants; 

I shall sit in the ruins where sat the 
Marius, 

Gray with the ghosts of the great 
departed.’’ 

And then he said in the solemn 
twilight . 


Eben So 


“Strangely wooing are yon vor 


above us, 

Strangely beautiful is the Faith o 
Islam, | 

Strangely sweet are the songs o 
Solomon, | 

Strangely tender are the teachings 0 
Jesus, 

Strangely cold is the sun on the moun, 
tains, | 

SHeneely mellow is the moon on ole 
ruins, 

Strangely pleasant are the stoler 
waters, 

Strangely lighted is the North night 
region, 

Strangely strong are the streams in 
the ocean, 

Strangely true are the tales of the 
Orient, 

But etrangee than all are the ways of 
women.’ 


His head on his hands and his hands 

on the marble, 

Alone in the midnight he slept in the 
ruins; 

And a form was before him white! 
mantled in moonlight, 

And bitter he said to the one he had. 
worshipp’d— 


“Your hands in mine, your face, 
your eyes 

Look level into mine, and mine 
Are not abashed in anywise ) 
As eyes were in an elden syne. | 
Perhaps the pulse is colder now, 
And blood comes tamer to the brow 
Because of hot blood long ago . . . 


Even So 


Withdraw your hand? . Well, 

(ia be it so, 

And turn your bent head slow side- 
wise, 


For recollections are as seas 
That come and go in tides, and these 
Are flood tides filling to the eyes. 


“How strange that you above the 
vale 
And I below the mountain wall 
Should walk and meet! . . Why, 
you are pale! . 
Strange meeting on the mountain 
fringe! . 
. . . More strange we ever met 
at all! . 
Tides come and go, we know their 
| time; 
The moon, we know her wane or 
prime; 
But who knows how the heart may 
hinge? 


“You stand before me here to- 
night, 

But not beside me, not beside— 
Are beautiful, but not a bride. 
Some things I recollect aright, 
Though full a dozen years are done 
Since we two met one winter night— 
Since I was crush’d as by a fall; 
For I have watch’d and pray’d 
through all 
The shining circles of the sun. 
7 “T saw you where sad cedars wave; 
I sought you in the dewy eve 
When shining crickets thrill and 
grieve; 
You smiled, and I became a slave. 


141 


A slave! I worshipp’d you at night, 
When all the blue field blossom’d red 
With dewy roses overhead 

In sweet and delicate delight. 

I was devout. I knelt that night 
To Him who doeth all things well. 

I tried in vain to break the spell; 
My prison’d soul refused to rise 

And image saints in Paradise, 

While one was here before my eyes. 


‘““Some things are sooner marr’d 
than made. 
A frost fell on a soul that night, 
And one was black that erst was white. 
And you forget the place—the night! 
Forget that aught was done or said— 
Say this has pass’d a long decade— 
Say not a single tear was shed— 
Say you forget these little things! 
Is not your recollection loth? 
Well, little bees have bitter stings, 
And I remember for us both. 
“No, not a tear. Do men com- 
plain? 
The outer wound will show a stain, 
And we may shriek at idle pain; 
But pierce the heart, and not a word, 
Or wail, or sign, is seen or heard. 


*‘T did not blame—I do not blame, 
My wild heart turns to you the same, 
Such as it is; but oh, its meed 
Of faithfulness and trust and truth, 
And earnest confidence of youth, 

I caution, you, is small indeed. 


“T follow’d you, I worshipp’d you 
And I would follow, worship still; 
But if I felt the blight and chill 


142 


Of frosts in my uncheerful spring, 

And show it now in riper years 

In answer to this love you bring— 

In answer to this second love, 

This wail of an unmated dove, 

In cautious answer to your tears— 

You, you know who taught me dis- 
dain. 

But deem you I would deal you pain? 

I joy to know your heart is light, 

I journey glad to know it thus, 

And could I dare to make it less? 

Yours—you are day, but I am night. 


“God knows I would descend to- 
day 
Devoutly on my knees, and pray 
Your way might be one path of peace 
Through bending boughs and_ blos- 
som’d trees, 
And perfect bliss through roses fair; 
But know you, back—one long de- 
cade— 
How fervently, how fond I pray’d?— 
What was the answer to that prayer? 


“The tale is old, and often told 
Andlived by more than you suppose— 
The fragrance of a summer rose 
Press’d down beneath the stubborn 
lid, 

When sun and song are hush’d and 
hid, 

And summer days are gray and old. 


“We parted so. Amid the bays 
And peaceful palms and song and 
shade 
Your cheerful feet in pleasure stray’d 
Through all the swift and shining 
days. 


Chen So oe : 


“You.made my way another way 
You badeit should not be with thine- 
A fierce and cheerless route was mine 
But we have met, tonight—today. 


“You talk 
tears—> 

And tell of tyranny and wrong, 
And I re-live some stinging jeers, 
Back, far back, in the leaden years. 
A lane without a turn is long, 
I muse, and whistle a reply— 
Then bite my lips and crush a sigh. 


of tears—of bitte 


“You sympathize that I am sad, 
I sigh for you that you complain, 
I shake my yellow hair in vain, 
I laugh with lips, but am not glad. | 


. “His was a hot love of th 

hours, | 
And love and lover both are flown; | 
Now you walk, like a ghost, alone. | 
He sipp’d your sunny lips, and he | 
Took all their honey; now the bee | 
Bends down the heads of other flower 
And other lips lift up to kiss. 

I am not cruel, yet I find 

A savage solace for the mind 
And sweet delight in saying this. . . 
Now you are silent, white, and you 
Lift up your hands as making sign, 
And your rich lips lie thin and blue 


And ashen . . . and you writhe 
and you 

Breathe quick and tremble . . . 1 
it true 

The soul takes wounds, sheds bloos 
like wine? 


| Hpreh 143 


“You seem so most uncom- 
mon tall 
igainst the lonely ghostly moon, 
‘hat hurries homeward oversoon, 
ind hides behind you and the pines; 
ind your two hands hang cold and 
small, 
ind your two thin arms lie like vines, 
lr winter moonbeams on a wall. 
What if you bea weary ghost, 
ind I but dream, and dream I wake? 
‘hen wake me not, and my mistake 
s not so bad; let’s make the most 
)f all we get, asleep, awake— 
ind waste not one sweet thing at all. 


rod knows that, at the best, life 
brings 

‘he soul’s share so exceeding small 

Ve weary for some better things, 

ind hunger even unto death. 

augh loud, be glad with ready breath, 

‘or after all are joy and grief 

lot merely matters of belief? 

ind what is certain after all, 

hut death, delightful, patient death? 

‘he cool and perfect, peaceful sleep, 

Vithout one tossing hand, or deep 

ad sigh and catching in of breath! 


“Be satisfied. The price of breath 
$ paid in toll, But knowledge is 
sought only with a weary care, 


And wisdom means a world of pain. . . 
Well, we have suffered, will again, 
And we can work and wait and bear, 
Strong in the certainty of bliss. 
Death is delightful: after death 
Breaks in the dawn of perfect day. 
Let question he who will: the May 
Throws fragrance far beyond the wall. 


“Death is delightful. Death is 
dawn. 

Fame is not much, love is not much, 
Yet what else is there worth the touch 
Of lifted hand with dagger drawn? 
So surely life is little worth: 
Therefore I say, Look up; therefore 
I say One little star has more 
Bright gold than all the earth of earth. 


“Yea, we must labor, plant to reaap— 
Life knows no folding up of hands— 
Must plow the soul, as plowing lands, 
In furrows fashion’d strong and deep. 
Life has its lesson. Let us learn 
The hard, long lesson from the birth, 
And be content; stand breast to 

breast, 
And bear and battle till the rest. 
Yet I look to yon stars, and say: 
Thank Christ, ye are so far away 
That when I win you I can turn 
And look, and see no sign of earth. 


° 


MYRRH 


Life knows no dead so beautiful 
_ As is the white cold coffin’d past; 
This I may love nor be betray'd: 


The dead are faithful to the last. 
I am not spouseless—I have wed 
A memory—a life that’s dead. 


144 


Farewell! for here the ways at last 
Divide—diverge, like delta’d Nile, 
Which after desert dangers pass’d 
Of many and many a thousand mile, 
As constant as a column stone, 
Seeks out the sea, divorced—alone. 


And you and I have buried Love, 
A red seal on the coffin’s lid; 
The clerk below, the court above, 
Pronounce it dead: the corpse is hid 
And I who never cross’d your will 
Consent . . . that you may have it 
still. 


Farewell! a sad word easy said 

And easy sung, I think, by some. . 
. I clutch’d my hands, I turn’d 
my head 

In my endeavor and was dumb; 

And when I should have said, Fare- 
well, 

I only murmur’d, ‘‘ This is hell.” 


What recks it now, whose was the 

blame? 

But call it mine; for better used 

Am I to wrong and cold disdain, 

Can better bear to be accused 

Of all that wears the shape of shame, 

Than have you bear one touch of 
blame. 


{ set my face for power and place, 
My soul is toned to sullenness, 
My heart holds not one sign nor trace 
Of love, or trust, or tenderness. 
But you—your years of happiness 
God knows I would not make them 
less. 


Myrrh 


And you will come some summ 
eve, | 
When wheels the white moon on h 
track, 
And hear the plaintive night-bi 
grieve, 
And heed the crickets clad in bial 
Alone—not far—a little spell, | 
And say, ‘‘Well, yes, he loved t 
well’; 


And sigh, ‘Well, yes, I mind r 
now, | 
None were so bravely true as he; 
And yet his love was tame someho: 
It was so truly true to me; 
I wish’d his patient love had less 
Of worship and of tenderness: 


‘“‘T wish it still, for thus alone 
There comes a keen reproach or Re 
A feeling I dislike to own; | 
Half yearnings for his voice again, | 
Half longing for his earnest gaze, — 
To know him mine always—always 

: 

I make no murmur; steady, calr 
Sphinx-like I gaze on days ahead 
No wooing word, no pressing palr 
No sealing love with lips seal-red, _ 
No waiting for some dusk or dawn, 
No sacred hour . . . allare gone, 


I go alone, no little hands 
To lead me from forbidden ways, 
No little voice in other lands 
To cheer through all the weary day 
Yet these are yours, and that to me 
Is much indeed. . So let — 
be! Jas 


. A last look from my moun- 
tain wall. . 
’ watch the red sun wed the sea 
Jeside your home . . the tides 
will fall 
And rise, but nevermore shall we 
Mand hand in hand and watch them 


flow, 
' As we once stood. . . Christ! 
this is so! 


| But, when the stately sea comes in 

With measured tread and mouth 
afoam, 

My darling cries above the din, 

And asks, ‘‘Has father yet come 

home?”’ 

Then look into the peaceful sky, 

And answer, gently, ‘By and by.” 


' One deep spring in a desert sand, 
One moss’d and mystic pyramid, 

A lonely palm on either hand, 

A fountain in a forest hid, 

Are all my life has realized 

Of all I cherish’d, all I prized: 


| Of all I dream’d in early youth 

‘Of love by streams and love-lit ways, 

While my heart held its type of truth 

Through all the,tropic golden days, 

And I the oak, and you the vine, 

Clung palm in palm through cloud or 
shine. 


Some time when clouds hang over- 
| head, 
‘(What weary skies without one 
cloud!) 
You may muse on this love that’sdead, 
Muse calm when not so cold or proud, 


10 


Hyprrh 


145 


And say, ‘‘At last it comes to me, 
That none was ever true as he.” 


My sin was that I loved too much— 
But I enlisted for the war, 
Till we the deep-sea shore should 
touch, 
Beyond Atlanta—near or far— 
And truer soldier never yet 
Bore shining sword or bayonet. 


I did not blame you—do not blame. 
The stormy elements of soul 
That I did scorn to tone or tame, 
Or bind down unto dull control 
In full fierce youth, they are all yours, 
With all their folly and their force. 


God keep you pure, oh, very pure, 
God give you grace to dare and do; 
God give you courage to endure 
The all He may demand of you,— 
Keep time-frosts from your raven 

hair, 
And your young heart without a care. 


I make no murmur nor complain; 
Above me are the stars and blue 
Alluring far to grand refrain; 
Before, the beautiful and true, 

To love or hate, to win or lose; 
Lo! I will now arise, and choose. 


But should you sometime read a 

sign, 

In isles of song beyond the brine, 

Then you will think a time, and you 

Will turn and say, “He once was 
mine, 

Was all my own; his smiles, his tears 

Were mine—were mine for years and 
years.” 


146 


BURNS : 


Eld Druid oaks of Ayr, 
Precepts! Poems! Pages! 
Lessons! Leaves, and Volumes! 
Arches! Pillars!’ Columns 
In corridors of ages! 

Grand patriarchal sages 
Lifting palms in prayer! 


The Drutd bears are drifting 
And shifting to and fro, 
In gentle breezes lifting, 
That bat-like come and go. 
The while the moon is sifting 
A sheen of shining snow 
On all these blossoms lifting 
Their blue eyes from below, 


No, 'tis not phantoms walking 
That you hear rustling there, 
But bearded Druids talking, 
And turning leaves in prayer. 
No, not a night-bird singing 
Nor breeze the broad bough swinging, 
But that bough holds a censer, 
And swings it to and fro. 
Tis Sunday eve, remember, 
That’s why they chant so low. 


I linger in the autumn noon, 

I listen to the partridge call, 

I watch the yellow leaflets fall 

And drift adown the dimpled Doon. 

I lean me o’er the ivy-grown 

Auld brig, where Vandal tourists’ 
tools 

Have ribb’d out names that would be 
known, 

Are known—known asa herd of fools. 


Burns 


Down Ailsa Craig the sun declir 
With lances level’d here and ther 
The tinted thorns! the trailing vin 
O braes of Doon! so fond, so fair! | 
So passing fair, so more than fond. 
The Poet’s place of birth beyond, 
Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr! 


} 


| 
I hear the milk-maid’s twilig 


song 
Come bravely through the stor 
bent oaks; : 
Beyond, the white surf’s sulk 


strokes 

Beat in a chorus deep and strong; 
I hear the sounding forge afar, | 
And rush and rumble of the Car, | 
The steady tinkle of the bell | 
Of lazy, leaden, home-bound cows 
That stop to bellow and to brows 
I breathe the soft sea-wind as well. 


O Burns! where bid? where bid 
ye now? - 
Where rest you in this night’s fu 
noon, se 
Great master of the pen and plow? | 
Might you not on yon slanting beam. 
Of moonlight kneeling to the Doon 
Descend once to this Hallow’d stream. 
Sure yon stars yield enough of ligh 
For heaven to spare your face ont 
night. | 


: 
| 


O Burns! another name for song, 
Another name for passion—pride; _ 
For love and poesy allied; ee | 
For strangely blended right and 

wrong. of 


+ 


| 

I picture you as one who kneel’d 
stranger at his own hearthstone; 

ne knowing all, yet all unknown, 

‘ne seeing all, yet all conceal’d; 

he fitful years you linger’d here 
lease of peril and of pain; 

nd I am thankful yet again 

he gods did love you, plowman! 

peer! 


‘In all your own and other lands, 
hear your touching songs of cheer; 
he lowly peasant, lordly peer, 

bove your honor’d dust strike hands. 


A touch of tenderness is shown 

1 this unselfish love of Ayr, 

nd it is well, you earn’d it fair; 

or all unhelmeted, alone, 

ou proved a plowman’s honest 
claim 


Byron 


147 


To battle in the lists of fame; 

You earn’d it as a warrior earns 

His laurels fighting for his land, 

And died—it was your right to go. 
O eloquence of silent woe! 

The Master leaning, reach’d a hand, 
And whisper’d,‘‘ It is finish’d, Burns!” 


O sad, sweet singer of a Spring! 
Yours was a chill, uncheerful May, 
And you knew no full days of June; 
You ran too swiftly up the way, 
And wearied soon, so over-soon! 
You sang in weariness and woe; 
You falter’d, and God heard you sing, 
Then touch’d your hand and led you 

so, 
You found life’s hill-top low, so low, 
You cross’d its summit long ere noon. 
Thus sooner than one would suppose 
Some weary feet will find repose. 


BYRON 


In men whom men condemn as ill 
D nd SO odness still, 
In men whom men pronounce divine 
I find so much of sin and blot, 

Ido not dare to draw a line 

_ Between the two, where God has not. 


0 cold and cruel Nottingham! 
n disappointment and in tears, 
iad, lost, and lonely, here I am 
*o question, ‘‘Is this Nottingham 
Df which I dream’d for years and 
years?”’ 
seek in vain for name or sign 
Mf him who made this mold a shrine, 
\ Megca to the fair and fond 
3eyond the seas, and still beyond. 


Where white clouds crush their 
drooping wings 
Against my snow-crown’d battle- 
ments, 
And peaks that flash like silver 
tents; 
Where Sacramento’s fountain springs, 
And proud Columbia frets his shore 
Of somber, boundless wood and wold, 
And lifts his yellow sands of gold 
In plaintive murmurs evermore; 
Where snowy dimpled Tahoe smiles, 
And where white breakers from the 
sea, 
In solid phalanx knee to knee, 
Surround the calm Pacific Isles, 
Then run and reach unto the land 


148 Byron 


And spread their thin palms on the 
sand,— 

Is he supreme—there understood: 

The free can understand the free; 

The brave and good the brave and 
good. 


Yea, he did sin; who hath reveal’d 
That he was more than man, or less? 
Yet sinn’d no more; but less conceal’d 
Than they who cloak’d their follies 

o’er, 
And then cast stones in his distress. 
He scorn’d to make the good seem 
more, 
Or make the bitter sin seem less. 
And so his very manliness 
The seeds of persecution bore. 


When all his songs and fervid love 
Brought back no olive branch or dove, 
Or love or trust from any one 
Proud, all unpitied and ahauen 
He lived to make himself 1 unknown, 
Disdaining love and yielding none. 
Like some high-lifted sea-girt stone 
That could not stoop, but all the days, 
With proud brow fronted to the 


breeze, 

Felt seas blown from the south, and 
seas 

Blown from the north, and many 
ways, 


He stood—a solitary light 

In stormy seas and settled night— 
Then fell, but stirr’d the seas as far 
As winds and waves and waters are. 


The meek-eyed stars are cold and 
white 
And steady, fix’d for all the years; 


The comet burns the wings of nig 

And dazzles elements and spheres 

Then dies in beauty and a blaze | 

Of light, blown far through ot 
days. 


The poet’s passion, sense of pri 
His boundless love, the wooing thre 
Of sweet eorneta ions that betide 
The warm and Wayward child of se: 
The world knows fot: I lift a hant 
To ye who know, who understand 


The ancient Abbey’s breast | 
broad, 
And stout her massive walls of ot 
But let him lie, repose alone | 
Ungather’d with the great of Gov. 
In dust, by his fierce fellow man. _ 
Some one, some day, loud voiced w 
speak | 
And say the broad breast was n 
broad, | 
The walls of stone were all too we: 
To hold his proud dust, in their pla 
The hollow of God’s great right hat 
Receives it; let it rest with God. 


In sad but beautiful decay | 
Gray Hucknall kneels into the dus 
And, cherishing her sacred trust, | 
Does blend her clay with lordly 4 


No sign or cryptic stone or cross - 
Unto the passing’ world has said, 
‘He died, and we deplore his loss.”’ 
No sound of'sandall’d pilgrim’s treat 
Disturbs the’ pilgrim’s peaceful rest 
Or frets the proud, impatient breast 
The bat flits through the broken pane 


et 


) Kit Carson's Ride 149, 


he black swift swallow gathers moss, 

nd builds in peace above his head, 

hen goes, then comes, and builds 
again. 


And it is well; not otherwise 
Vould he, the grand sad singer, will. 


The serene peace of paradise 

He sought—’tis his—the storm is 
still. 

Secure in his eternal fame, 

And blended pity and respect, 

He does not feel the. cold neglect,— 

And England does not fear the shame. 


KIT CARSON’S RIDE 


2vom! room to turn round in, to breathe 
and be free, 

"o grow to be giant, to sail as at sea 

Vith the speed of the wind on a steed 
with his mane 

Yo the wind, withoui pathway or route 
or a rein. | 

Room! room to be free where the white 
border’d sea 

Blows a kiss toa brother as boundless 
as he; 

Where the buffalo come like a cloud on 
the plain, 

Pouring on like the tide of a storm- 

' driven matin, 

And the lodge-of the hunter to friend or 
to foe 

Offers rest; and unquestion’d you come 
or you go. 

My plains of America! Seas of wild 
lands! 

From a land in the seas in a raiment of 
foam, 

That has reached to a stranger the wel- 

| come of home, * 

T turn to you, lean to you, lift you my 

hands. 


‘{Run? Run? See this flank, sir, and 
T do love him so! 


But he’s blind, badger blind. Whoa, 
Pache, boy, whoa. 

No, you wouldn’t believe it to look at 
his eyes, 

But he’s blind, badger blind, and it 
happen’d this wise: 


‘We lay in the grass and the sun- 

burnt clover 

That spread on the ground like a great 
brown cover 

Northward and southward, and west 
and away 

To the Brazos, where our lodges lay, 

One broad and unbroken level of 
brown. 

We were waiting the curtains of night 
to come down 

To cover us trio and conceal our flight 

With my brown bride, won from an 
Indian town 

That lay in the rear the full ride of a 
night. 


‘We lounged in the grass—her eyes 
were in mine, 
And her hands on my knee, and her 
hair was as wine 
In its wealth and its flood, pouring on 
and all over 


s 


150 Rit Carson's Ride 


Her bosom wine red, and press’d | And his voice loud and shrill, as bot 


never by one. 

Her touch was as warm as the tinge 
of the clover 

Burnt brown as it reach’d to the kiss 
of the sun. 

Her words they were low as the lute- 
throated dove, 

And as laden with love as the heart 
when it beats 

In its hot, eager answer to earliest 
love, 

Or the bee hurried home by its bur- 

then of sweets. 


“We lay low in the grass on the 

broad plain levels, 

Old Revels and I, and my stolen 
brown bride; 

‘Forty full miles if a foot, and the 
devils 

Of red Comanches are hot on the 
track 

When once they strike it. Let the sun 
go down 

Soon, very soon,’ muttered bearded 
old Revels 

As he peer’d at the sun, lying low on 
his back, 
Holding fast to his lasso. 
jerk’d at his steed 
And he sprang to his feet, and glanced 
swiftly around, 

And then dropp’d, as if shot, with an 
ear to the ground; 

Then again to his feet, and to me, to 
my bride, 

While his eyes were like flame, his 
face like a shroud, 

His form like a king, and his beard 
like a cloud, 


Then he 


es 


trumpet and reed,— 

‘Pull, pull in your lassoes, and brid! 
to steed, Es 

And speed you if ever for life yo. 
would speed. 

Aye, ride for your lives, for your live 
you must ride! | 

For the plain is aflame, the prairie 0 
fire, 

And the feet of wild horses hard flyin) 
before 

I heard like a sea breaking high on th 
shore, 

While the buffalo come like a surge 0 
the sea, | 

Driven far by the flame, driving fas 
on us three 

Asa sen beat comes, crushing pale 
in his ire.’ 


“We drew in the lassoes, sine 
saddle and rein, 


‘Threw them on, cinched them on, 


i 


cinched them over again, 

And again drew the girth; and spring 
we to horse, 

With head to the Brazos, witha sound | 
in the air 

Like the surge of a sea, with a flash in| 
the eye, 

From that red wall of flame reaching 
up to the sky; 

A red wall of flame and a black rolling 
sea | 

Rushing fast upon us, as the wind 
sweeping free 

And afar from the desert blown hol | 
low and hoarse. 


‘Not a word, not a wail froma lip 
was let fall, 


Kit Carson's Wide 


‘e brcke not a whisper, we breathed 
not a prayer, 

here was work to be done, there was 
death in the air, 

nd the chance was as one to a thou- 
sand for all. 


Twenty miles! . . thirty miles! 
, . a dim distant speck.... 

hen a long reaching line, and the 
Brazos in sight! 

nd I rose in my seat with a shout of 
delight. 

stood in my stirrup, and look’d to 
my right— 

ut Revels was gone; I glanced by 
my shoulder 

nd saw his horse stagger; I saw his 

head drooping 

fard down on his breast, and his 
naked breast stooping 

ow down to the mane, as so swifter 
and boider 

tan reaching out for us the red-footed 

jae aire. 

Je rode neck to neck with a buffalo 

a bull, 

‘hat made the earth shake where he 

came in his course, 

{he monarch of millions, with shaggy 

mane full 

ME smoke and of dust, and it shook 
with desire 


151 


Of battle, with rage and with bellow- 
ing hoarse. 

His keen, crooked horns, through the 
storm of his mane, | 

Like black lances lifted and lifted 
again; 

And I looked but this once, for the 
fire licked through, 

And Revels was gone, as we rode two 
and two. 


“T Jook’d to my left then—and 

nose, neck, and shoulder 

Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to 
my thighs, 

And up through the black blowing veil 
of her hair 

Did beam full in mine her two mar- 
velous eyes, 

With a longing and love yet a look of 
despair 

And of pity for me, as she felt the 
smoke fold her, 

And flames leaping far for her glorious 
hair. 

Her sinking horse falter’d, plunged, 
fell and was gone 

As I reach’d through the flame and I 
bore her still on. 

On!intothe Brazos, she, Pacheand [— 

Poor, burnt, blinded Pache. I love 
him . : 
That’s why.” 


FALLEN LEAVES, 1873 


Some fugitive lines that allure us no more, 

Some fragments that fell to the sea out of teme; 
Unfinish’d and guiltless of thought as of rhyme, 
Thrown now on the world like watfs on the shore. 


153 


PALM 


Thatch of palm and a patch of 
clover, 
Breath of balm in a field of brown, 
The clouds blew up and the birds flew 
over, 
And I look’d upward; but who 
look’d down? 


Who was true in the test that tried 
us? 
Who was it mock’d? Who now 
may mourn 


THOMAS 


King of Tigre, comrade true, 
Where in all thine isles art thou? 
Jailing on Fonseca blue? 

Nearing Amapala now? 
King of Tigre, where art thou? 


Battling for Antilles’ queen? 
Saber hilt, or olive bough? 
Crown of dust, or laurel green? 
Roving love, or marriage vow? 
King and comrade, where art thou? 


LEAVES 


The loss of a love that a cross denied 
us, 
With folded hands and a heart 
forlorn? 


God forgive us when the fair forget us. 
The worth of a smile, the weight of 
a tear, 
Why, who can measure? 
beset us. 
We laugh a moment; we mourn a 
year. 


The fates 


OF TIGRE 


Sailing on Pacific seas? 
Pitching tent in Pimo now? 
Underneath magnolia trees? 
Thatch of palm, or cedar bough? 
Soldier singer, where art thou? 


Coasting on the Oregon? 
Saddle bow, or birchen prow? 
Round the Isles of Amazon? 
Pampas, plain, or mountain brow? 
Prince of rovers, where art thou? 


YOSEMITE 


Sound! sound! sound! 
O colossal walls and crown’d 
In one eternal thunder! 
Sound! sound! sound! 
Oye oceans overhead, 
While we walk, subdued in wonder, 
In the ferns and grasses, under 
And beside the swift Merced! 


Fret! fret! fret! 
Streaming, sounding banners, set 
On the giant granite castles 
In the clouds and in the snow! 
But the foe he comes not yet,— 
We are loyal, valiant vassals, 
And we touch the trailing tassels 
Of the banners far below. 


155 


156 Bead in the Sierras 


Surge! surge! surge! We may wait on God before us; 
From the white Sierra’s verge, We may shout or lift a hand 
To the very valley blossom. We may bow down and deplore us, | 
Surge! surge! surge! But may never understand. | 
Yet the song-bird builds a home, 

And the mossy branches cross them, Beat! beat! beat! ; 
And the tasselled tree-tops toss them | We advance, but would retreat 
In the clouds of falling foam. From this restless, broken breast 
f Of the earth in a convulsion. 
Sweep! sweep! sweep! We would rest, but dare not rest, 
O ye heaven-born and deep, For the angel of expulsion 
In one dread, unbroken chorus! From this Paradise below | 
We may wonder or may weep,— Waves us onward and . . . we go, 


DEAD IN THE SIERRAS 


His footprints have failed us, Prone, bearded, and breasted 
Where berries are red, Like columns of stone: 
And madrofios are rankest, And tall as a pine— 
The hunter is dead! As a pine overthrown! 
The grizzly may pass His camp-fires gone, 
By his half-open door; What else can be done 
May pass and repass Than let him sleep on 
On his path, as of yore; Till the light of the sun? 
The panther may crouch Ay, tombless! what of it? | 
In the leaves on his limb; Marble is dust, 
May scream and may scream,— Cold and repellent; | 
It is nothing to him. And iron is rust. 


IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 


Where the cocoa and cactus are neigh- ; Where maidens blush red in their 


bors, tresses 
Where the fig and the fir-tree are Of night, and retreat to advance, | 
one; And the dark, sweeping eyelash ex- 
Where the brave corn is lifting bent presses 
sabres Deep passion, half hush’d in a 


And flashing them far in the sun; trance; | 


Cho Dhall Sap? 


Where the fig is in leaf, where the 
blossom 

Of orange is fragrant as fair,— 

Santa Barbara’s balm in the bosom, 

Her sunny, soft winds in the hair; 


Where the grape is most luscious; 
where laden 
Long branches bend double with 
gold; 
Los Angelos leans like a maiden, 
Red, blushing, half shy, and half 
bold. 


Where passion was born, and where 
poets 
Are deeper in silence than song, 


157 


A love knows a love, and may know 
its 
Reward, yet may never know 
wrong. 


Where passion was born and where 
blushes 
Gave birth to my songs of the 
South, 
And a song is a love-tale, and rushes, 
Unchid, through the red of the 
mouth; 


Where an Adam in Eden reposes, 
I repose, I am glad, and take wine 
In the clambering, redolent roses, 
And under my fig and my vine. 


WHO SHALL SAY? 


A sinking sun, a sky of red, 

In bars and banners overhead, 

And blown apart like curtains drawn; 

Afar a-sea a blowing sail 

That shall go down before the dawn; 

And they are passion-toss’d and 
pale, 

The two that stand and look alone 

And silent, as two shafts of stone 

Set head and foot above the dead. 


They watch the ship, the weary sun, 
The banner’d streamers every one, 
Till darkness hides them in her hair. 


The winds come in as cold as death, 

And not a palm above the pair 

To lift a lance or break a breath. 

The hollow of the ocean fills 

Like sounding hollow halls of stone, 

And not a banner streams above; 

The sea is set in snowy hills. 

The ship is lost. The winds are blown 

Unheeded now; yet who shall say: 

‘‘We had been wiser so than they 

Who wept and watch’d the parting 
sail 

In silence; mute with sorrow, pale 

With weeping for departed love’’? 


A LOVE SONG 


Tf earth is an oyster, love is the pearl, 
_ As pure as pure caresses; 
Then loosen the gold of your hair, my 
girl, 
And hide my pearl in your tresses. 


So, coral to coral and pearl to 
pearl, 
And a cloud of curls above me, 
O bury me deep, my beautiful girl, 
And then confess you love me. 


158 jn Dan 


The world goes over my beautiful 
girl | 
In glitter and gold and odor of roses, 
In eddies of splendor, in oceans of 
pearl, 
But here the heaven reposes. . 


| 
Srancisco | 


The world is wide; men go their way 
But love it is wise, and of all th 
hours, | 
And of all the beautiful sun-born day 
It sips their sweets as the bees sj 
flowers. 


IN SAN FRANCISCO 


Lo! here sit we mid the sun-down seas 
And the white sierras. The swift, 
sweet breeze 
Is about us here; and a sky so fair 
Is bending above in its azaline 
hue, 
That you gaze and you gaze in 
delight, and you 
See God and the portals of heaven 
there. 


Yea, here sit we where the white 
ships ride 
- In the morn, made glad and forget- 
ful of night, 
The white and the brown men side by 
side 
In search of the truth, and be- 
trothed to the right; 
For these are the idols, and only these, 
Of men that abide by the sun-down 
seas. 


SHADOWS 


In the place where the grizzly reposes, 
Under peaks where a right is a 
wrong, : 
I have memories richer than roses, 
Sweet echoes more sweet than a 
song; 


The brown brave hand of the ha 
vester, 

The delicate hand of the prince ur 
tried, 

The rough hard handofthe carpena 

They are all upheld with an equi 

pride; 

And the prize it is his to be crown c | 
blest, 

Prince or peon, who bears him bes 


Yea, here sit we by the golden gate, 
Not demanding much, but invite 
you all, 
Nor publishing loud, but daring 4 
wait, 
And great in much that the P| 
deem small; 
And the gate it is God’s, to | 
Japan,— 
And who shall shut it in the face o 
man? 


OF SHASTA | 
Sounds sweet as the voice of ¢ 
singer | 
Made sacred with sorrows unsaid) 
And a love that implores me to linge: 
For the love of dead days and theii 


dead. 


At Sea 


ut I turn, throwing kisses, return- 
ing 
To strife and to turbulent men, 


A 


We part as ships on a pathless 
erdain, 

Gayly enough, for the sense of pain 
jasleep at first: but ghosts will arise 
When we would repose, and the 
forms will come 
And walk when we walk, and will 
| not be dumb, 
or yet forget with their wakeful 
eyes. 


| When we most need rest, and the 
perfect sleep, 


159 


As to learn to be wise, as unlearning 
All things that were manliest 
then. 


SEA 


Some hand will reach from the 
dark, and keep 
The curtains drawn and the pillows 
toss’d igs 
Like a tide of foam; and one will say 
At night,—O, Heaven, that it were 
day! 
And one by night through the 
misty tears 
Will say,—O, Heaven, the days 
are years, 
And I would to Heaven that the 
waves were cross’d. 


A MEMORY OF SANTA BARBARA 


Yea, Santa Barbara is fair; 
sunny clime and sweet to touch, 
or tamer men of gentler mien, 
ut as for me—another scene. 
land below the Alps I know, 
et well with grapes and girt with 

much 
£ woodland beauty; I shall share 

fy rides by night below the light 
'f Mauna Loa, ride below 
the steep and starry Hebron height; 
hall lift my hands in many lands, 
South Sea palm, see Northland 

fir, 
ee white-wing’d swans, see red-bill’d 

doves; 
ee many lands and many loves, 
ut never more the face of her. 


And what her name or where the 
place 
Of her who makes my Mecca’s prayer, 
Concerns you not; not any trace 
Of entrance to my temple’s shrine 
Remains. The memory is mine, 
And none shall pass the portals there. 


The present! take it, hold it thine, 
But that one hour out from all 
The years that are, or yet shall fall, 
I pluck it out, I name it mine, 
And whistle by the rest, and laugh 
To see it blown about as chaff; 
That hour bound in sunny sheaves, 
With tassell’d shocks of golden shine, 
That hour, wound in scarlet leaves, 
Is mine. I stretch a hand and swear 


160 Summer 


An oath that breaks into a prayer; 
By heaven, it is wholly mine! 


I see the gold and purple gleam 
Of autumn leaves, a reach of seas, 
A silent rider like a dream 
Moves by, a mist of mysteries, 
And these are mine, and only these, 
Yet they be more in my esteem, 
Than silver’d sails on coral’d seas. 


SUMMER > 
Frosts of an hour! Fruits of a 
season! 
Who foresees them? Slain in a 
day, 
The loves of a lustrum. Who shall 
say 
The heart has sense or the soul has 
reason? 


| 
Frosts | 
| 
: 


Let red-leaf’d boughs sweet fru: 

bestow, 

Let fame of foreign lands be mine. 

Let blame of faithless men befall; | 

It matters nothing; over all, 

One hour arches like a bow 

Of promise bent in many hues, 

That tide nor time shall bid | 
cline; 


Or storms of all the years refuse. | 


FROSTS 


. One not knowing and one1 
caring. 
Leaves in their a | 
rat them part; 
She with the gifts of a gracious be 
ing, - 
He with the pangs of a pessial 
heart. 


SIERRAS ADIOS 


With the buckler and sword into 
battle 
I moved, I was matchless and 
strong; 
I stood in the rush and the rattle 
Of shot, and the spirit of song 
Was upon me; and youthful and 
splendid 
My armor flashed far in the sun 
As I sang of my land. It is ended, 
And all has been done, and undone. © 


I descend with my dead in the 
trenches, 
To-night I bend down on the plain 


In the dark, and a memory wren 
The soul; I turn up to the rain | 
The cold and beautiful faces, | 
Ay, faces forbidden for years, 
Turn’d up to my face with the trac: 
Of blood to the white rain | 
tears. | 
Count backward the years on yo 
fingers, 
While forward rides yonder wh’ 
moon, | 
Till the soul turns aside, and it take 
By a grave that was born of 
June; 


Sierras Adios 


» the grave of a soul, where the 
grasses 

Are tangled as witch-woven hair; 

here footprints are not, and where 
passes 

Not any thing known anywhere; 


y a grave without tombstone or 
token, 
‘At a tomb where not fern leaf or 
i fir, 
oot or branch, was once bended or 
broken, 
To bestow there the body of her; 
or it lives, and the soul perish’d 
only, 
And alone in that land, with these 
hands, 
)id I lay the dead soul, and all lonely 
Does it lie to this day in the sands. 


o! a wild little maiden with tresses 
Of gold on the wind of the hills; 
ly, a wise little maiden that guesses 
Some good in the cruelest ills; 
ind a babe with its baby-fists 
doubled, 
And thrust to my beard, and with- 
| in, 
\s he laughs like a fountain half- 
troubled, 
Nhen my finger chucks under his 
chin. 


Should the dead not decay, when the 
| culture 
Of fields be resumed in the May? 


if 


161 


Lo! the days are dark-wing’d as the 
vulture! 
Let them swoop, then, and bear 
them away: 
By the walks let me cherish red 
flowers, 
By the wall teach one tendril to 
run, 
Lest I wake, and I watch all the hours 
I shall ever see under the sun. 


It is well, may be so, to bear losses, 
And to bend and bow down to the 
rod; 
If the scarlet bars and the crosses 
Be but rounds up the ladder to 
God. 


But this mocking of men! Ah, that 
enters 
The marrow! the murmurs that 
swell 
To reproach for my song-love, that 
centres, 


Vast land, upon thee, are not well. 


And I go, thanking God in my going, 
That an ocean flows stormy and 
deep, 
And yet gentler to me is its flowing 
Than the storm that forbids me to 
sleep. 
And I go, thanking God, with hands 
lifted, 
That a land lies beyond where the 
free . 
And the gentle of heart and the gifted 
Of soul have a home in the sea. 


Fy pd Tee «PY Sen Be te 
¥ i 4 (erent 4 
? aha 
rath: Hota ieee 


s TG 


(ey sala 


cratiideets lee 
Lepsber pt 


"J AveTe ta} be ob 


Oar’ 4 


Ps wige 1 abt en ee 
inary. aul ges eal 


ni 7 
Ls 


“BY THE SUN-DOWN SEAS, 1873 


a 


OYE-AGUA: OREGON 


1 brave world-builders of the West! 

ry, who dath know ye? Who shall 
know 

t I, that on thy peaks of snow 

ake bread the first? Who loves ye 
best? 

1a holds ye still, of more stern worth 

en all proud peoples of the earth? 


Yea, I, the rhymer of wild rhymes, 
Indifferent of blame or praise, 

Still sing of ye, as one who plays 

The same sweet air in all renee 


climes— Pa 
The same wild, piercing highland 
air, 


Because—because, his heart is there. 


SIERRA GRANDE DEL NORTE 


Like fragments of an uncompleted 
world, 

om bleak Alaska, bound in ice and 
spray, 

, where the peaks of Darien lie 
curl’d 

clouds, the broken lands loom bold 
and gray. 

1eseamen nearing SanFrancisco Bay 

rget the compass here; with sturdy 
hand 

ney seize the wheel, look up, then 
bravely lay 

he ship to shore by rugged peaks 
that stand 

he stern and proud patrician fathers 
of the land. 


They stand white stairs of heaven, 
—stand a line 

f lifting, endless, and eternal white. 

hey look upon the far and flashing 
brine, 


Upon the boundless plains, the broken 
height 

Of Kamiakin’s battlements. 
flight 

Of time is underneath their untopp’d 
towers. 

They seem to push aside the moon at 
night, 

To jostle and to loose the stars. The 
flowers 

Of heaven fall about their brows in 
shining showers. 


The 


They stand in line of lifted snowy 

isles 

High held above the toss’'d and 
tumbled sea,— 

A sea of wood in wild unmeasured 
miles: 

White pyramids of Faith where man 
is free; 

White monuments of Hope that yet 
shall be 


165 


166 


The mounts of matchless and im- 
mortal song . 

I look far down the hollow days; I see 

The bearded prophets, simple-soul’d 
and strong, 

That strike the sounding harp and 
thrill the heeding throng. 


Serene and satisfied! supreme! as 
lone 
As God, they loom like God’s arch- 
angels churl’d; 


Exodus for rego 


They look as cold as kings ti 
throne; 
The mantling wings of night | 
crush’d and curl’d 
As feathers curl. The elements | 
hurl’d | 
From off their bosoms, and are bid« 
go, | 
Like evil spirits, to an under-work 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexi) 
A line of battle-tents in everlast 
snow. 


EXODUS FOR OREGON 


A tale half told and hardly under- 

stood; 

The talk of bearded men that chanced 
to meet, 

That lean’d on long quaint rifles in 
the wood, 

That look’d in fellow faces, spoke 
discreet 

And low, as half in doubt and in 
defeat 

Of hope; a tale it was of lands of gold 

That lay below the sun. Wild- 
wing’d and fleet 

It spread among the swift Missouri’s 
bold 

Unbridled men, and reach’d to where 
Ohio roll’d. 


Then long chain’d lines of yoked 

and patient steers; 

Then long white trains that pointed 
to the west, 

Beyond the savage west; the hopes 
and fears 

Of blunt, untutor’d men, who hardly 
guess’d 


Their course; the brave and sie 
women, dress’d 

In homely spun attire, the boys 
bands, 

The cheery babes that laugh’d at ¢, 
and bless’d 

The doubting hearts, with | 
lifted hands! . 

What exodus for far untravers 
lands! 


The Plains! The shouting drive 

at the wheel; 

The crash of feather whips; the cru 
and roll 

Of wheels; the groan of yokes ar 
grinding steel 

And iron chain, and lo! at last t} 
whole 

Vast line, that reach’d as if to touc 
the goal, 

Began to stretch and stream awa 
and wind 7. 


Toward the west, as if with one cor 
trol; 


Exodus for Oregon 


hen hope loom’d fair, and home lay 
far behind; 

efore, the boundless plain, and 
fiercest of their kind. 


At first the way lay green and 
fresh as seas, 

nd far away as any reach of wave; 

he sunny streams went by in belt of 
trees; 

nd here and there the tassell’d 
tawny brave 

wept by on, horse, look’d back, 
stretch’d forth and gave 

yell of warn, and then did wheel 
and rein 

while, and point away, dark-brow’d 
and grave, 

nto the far and dim and distant plain 

Vith signs and prophecies, and then 
plunged on again. 


Some hills at last began to lift and 

break; 

‘ome streams began to fail of wood 
and tide, 

[he somber plain began betime to 
take 

\ hue of weary brown, and wild and 
wide 

[It stretch’d its naked breast on every 
side. 

A babe was heard at last to cry for 
bread 

Amid the deserts; cattle low’d and 

died, 

And dying men went by with broken 

tread, 

And left a long black serpent line of 

wreck and dead. 


167 


Strange hunger’d birds, black- 
wing’d and still as death, 

And crown’d of red with hooked 
beaks, blew low 

And close about, till we could touch 
their breath— 

Strange unnamed birds, that seem’d 
to come and go 

In circles now, and now direct and 
slow, 

Continual, yet never touch the earth; 

Slim foxes slid and shuttled to and 
fro 

At times across the dusty weary 
dearth 

Of life, look’d back, then sank like 
crickets in a hearth. 


Then dust arose, a long dim line 

like smoke 

From out of riven earth. The wheels 
went groaning by, 

Ten thousand feet in harness and in 
yoke, 

They tore the ways of ashen alkali, 

And desert winds blew sudden, swift 
and dry. 

The dust! it sat upon and fill’d the 
train! 

It seem’d to fret and fill the very sky. 

Lo! dust upon the beasts, the tent, 
the plain, 

And dust, alas! on breasts that rose 
not up again. 


They sat in desolation and in dust 
By dried-up desert streams; the 
mother’s hands 
Hid all her bended face; the cattle 
thrust 3 


168 


Their tongues and faintly call’d across 
the lands. 

The babes, that knew not what this 
way through sands 

Could mean, did ask if it would end 
today? ont 

The panting wolves slid by, red-eyed, 
in bands 

To pools beyond. The men look’d 
far away, 

And, silent, saw that all a boundless 
desert lay. 


They rose by night; they struggled 
on and on 

As thin and still as ghosts; then here 
and there 


Beside the dusty way before the dawn, 


Men silent laid them down in their 
despair, 

And died. But woman! 
frail as fair 

May man have strength to give to 
you your due; 


Woman, 


THE HEROES 
I stand upon the green Sierra’s 
wall; 
Against the east, beyond the yellow 
grass, 


I see the broken hill-tops lift and fall, 

Then sands that shimmer like a sea 
of glass . 

There lies the nation’s great high road 
of dead. 


Forgotten aye, unnumbered, and, 
alas! 
Unchronicled in deed or death; 


instead, 


The Weroes ot @regon 


You falter’d not, nor murmured ai 
where, 

You held your babes, held to ye 
course, and you 

Bore on through burning hell ye: 
double burdens through. 


Men stood at last, the decimat} 

few, 

Above a land of running streams, ai 
they? 

They push’d aside the boughs, ai) 
peering through 

Beheld afar the cool, refreshing tail 

Then some did curse, and some be: 
hands to pray; 

But some look’d back upon t) 
desert, wide 

And desolate with death, then all t) 
day 

They mourned. But one, with not 
ing left beside 

His dog to love, crept down amor 
the ferns and died. 


OF OREGON 


The new aristocrat lifts high a a 
head. 


My brave and unremember’ 
heroes, rest; | 
You fell in silence, silent lie an 
sleep. | 
Sleep on unsung, for this, I say, wet 
best: 
The world today has hardly time t 
weep; | 
The world today will hardly care t: 
keep 


The Heroes of Oregon 


In heart her plain and unpretending 


brave. 

The desert winds, they whistle by 
and sweep 

About you; brown’d and _ russet 


grasses wave 
Along a thousand leagues that lie one 
common grave. 


The proud and careless pass in 
palace car 
Along the line you blazon’d white 
with bones; 
Pass swift to people, and possess and 
mar 
Your lands with monuments and 
letter’d stones 
Unto themselves. 
waste disowns 
Their touch. His everlasting hand 


Thank God! this 


has drawn 

A shining line around you. Wealth 
bemoans 

The waste your splendid grave em- 
ploys. Sleep on, 


No hand shall touch your dust this 
side of God and dawn. 


I let them stride across with grasp- 
ing hands 

And strive for brief possession; mark 
and line 

With lifted walls the new divided 
lands, 

And gather growing herds of lowing 

kine. 

I could not covet these, could not 
confine 

My heart to one; all seem’d to me the 
same, 


169 


And all below my mountain home, 
divine 
And beautiful, 
name, 

As if the herds and lands were mine, 
All mine, or his, all beautiful the 

same. 


held in another’s 


I have not been, shall not be, 


understood; 

I have not wit, nor will, to well 
explain, 

But that which men call good I find 
not good. 

The lands the savage held, shall hold 
again, 

The gold the savage spurn’d in proud 
disdain 

For centuries; go, take them all; build 
high 

Your gilded temples; strive and strike 
and strain 

And crowd and controvert and curse 
and lie 

In church and State, in town and 
citadel, and . . . die. 


And who shall grow the nobler 
from it all? 
The mute and unsung savage loved 
as true— 
He felt, as grateful felt, God’s bless- 
ings fall 
About his lodge and tawny babes as 
you 
In temples,—Moslem, Christian, in- 
fidel, or Jew. 
The sea, the great white, 
braided, bounding sea, 
Is laughing in your face; the arching 
blue 


170 


Remains to God; the mountains still 
are free, 

A refuge for the few remaining tribes 
and me. 


Your cities! from the first the hand 
of God 
Has been against them; sword and 
flood and flame, 
The earthquake’s march, and pesti- 
lence, have trod 


WHERE ROLLS 


See once these stately scenes, then 

roam no more; 

No more remains on earth to eager 
eyes; 

The cataract comes down, a broken 
roar, 

The palisades defy approach, and rise 

Green moss’d and dripping to the 
clouded skies. 

The cafion thunders with its full of 
foam, 

And calls loud-mouth’d, and all the 
land defies; 

The mounts make fellowship and 
dwell at home 

In snowy brotherhood beneath their 
purpled dome. 


The rainbows swim in circles round, 

and rise 

Against the hanging granite walls till 
lost 

In drifting dreamy clouds and dappled 
skies, 

A grand mosaic intertwined and 
toss’d 


@ihere Rolls the Oregon 


To undiscerning dust the very 
name 

Of antique capitals; 
same 

Sad destiny besets the battle-fields 

Of Mammon and the harlot’s house 
of shame. 

Lo! man with monuments and lifted 
shields 

Against his city’s fate. 
city yields. 


and still the 
| 


A flame! his 


THE OREGON 


Along the mighty cafion, bound and 
cross’d ' 

By storms of screaming birds of sea 
and land; 

The salmon rush below, bright EA 
and boss’d 

In silver. Tawny, tall, 
hand 

You see the savage spearman nude 
and silent stand. 


on either 


Here sweep the wide wild waters cold 
and white 7. | 

And blue in their far depths; divided | 
now A | 

By sudden swift canoe as still and 
light 

As feathers nodding from the a 
brow 

That lifts and looks from out the 
imaged prow. 

Ashore you hear the papoose shout at 
play; 

The curl’d smoke comes from nda 
neath the bough 

Of leaning fir: the wife looks far 
away | 


Where BRolls the Oregon 


And sees a swift slim bark divide the 
dashing spray. 


Slow drift adown the river’s level’d 


deep, 

And look above; lo, columns! woods! 
the snow! 

The rivers rush upon the brink and 
leap 

From out the clouds three thousand 
feet below, 

And land afoam in tops of firs that 
grow 

Against your river’s rim: they plash, 
they play 

In clouds, now loud and now subdued 
and slow, 

A thousand thunder tones; they swing 
and sway 


In idle winds, long leaning shafts of 
shining spray. 


An Indian summer-time it was, 
long past, 
We lay on this Columbia, far below 
The stormy water falls, and God had 


cast 

Us heaven’s stillness. Dreamily and 
slow 

We drifted as the light bark chose to 
go. 


An Indian girl with ornaments of 
shell 

Began to sing. . 
hold such flow 

Of hair, such eyes, but rarely earth. 
There fell 

A sweet enchantment that possess’d 
me as a spell. 


The stars may 


171 


We saw an elk forsake the sable 

wood, 

Step quick across the rim of shining 
sand, 

Breast out unscared against the flash- 
ing flood, 

Then brisket deep with lifted antlers 
stand, 

And ears alert, look sharp on either 
hand, 

Then whistle shrill to dam and doubt- 
ing fawn 

To cross, then lead with black nose 
from the land. 

They cross’d, they climb’d the heav- 
ing hills, were gone, 

A sturdy charging line with crooked 
sabers drawn. 


Then black swans cross’d us slowly 

low and still; 

Then other swans, wide-wing’d and 
white as snow, 

Flew overhead 
timber’d hill, 

And call’d and sang afar, coarse- 
voiced and slow, 

Till sounds roam’d lost in somber firs 
below... 

Then clouds blew in, and all the sky 
was cast 

With tumbled and tumultuous clouds 
that grow 

Red thunderbolts. . . 
A thunderblast! 

The clouds were rent, and lo! Mount 
Hood hung white and vast. 


and topp’d the 


A. flash! 


172 


Picture of a Bull 


PICTURE OF A BULL 


Once, morn by morn, when snowy 

mountains flamed 

With sudden shafts of light that shot 
a flood 

Into the vale like fiery arrows aim’d 

At night from mighty battlements, 
there stood 

Upon a cliff high-limn’d against 
Mount Hood, 

A matchless bull, fresh forth from 
sable wold, 

And standing so seem’d grander 
*gainst the wood 

Than winged bull that stood with tips 
of gold 

Beside the brazen gates of Nineveh 
of old. 


A time he toss’d the dewy turf, and / 


then 
Stretch’d forth his wrinkled neck, 
andloud ~~ 
He call’d above the far abodes of men« 
Until his breath became a curling 


With lifted head, majestic and most 


proud, 
And lone as night in deepest | 
withdrawn 
He roamed in silent rage until an- 
other dawn. 


What. drove the hermit from the 
valley herd, | 
What cross of love, what cold neglect | 
to kind, 
Or scorn of unpretending worth had 
stirr’d | 
The stubborn blood and drove him 
forth to find | 
A fellowship in mountain cloud and | 
wind, 
I ofttime wonder’d much; a oft} 
time thought | 
The beast betray’d a royal monarch’s’ 
mind | 
To lift above the low herd’s common | 
lot 
And make them hear himcstill wien | 


cloud 
And wreathed about his neck a misty they had fain 1 forgot. 
bruit. ire 6) gira ae na Oana oT ac | 
He then as sudden as he came pass’d | ea 
on Rae 
6 ae 
VAQUERO 


His broad-brimm’d hat push’d 
back with careless air, 
The proud vaquero sits his steed as 
free 
As winds that toss his black abundant 
hair. 
No rover ever swept a lawless sea 


With such a haught and heedless air 
as he 


Who scorns the path, and bounds — 


with swift disdain 
Away, a peon born, yet born to be 


A splendid king; behold him ride, 


and reign. 


The Great Emerald Land 


How brave he takes his herds in 
branding days, 
On timber’d hills that belt about the 
plain; 
He climbs, he wheels, he shouts 
through winding ways 


Of hiding ferns and hanging fir; the |. 


rein 


Is loose, the rattling spur drives swift;” 


the mane 

Blows free; the bullocks~ rush in 
storms before; 

They turn with lifted heads, they 
rush again, 

Then sudden plunge from out the 
wood, and pour 

A cloud upon the plain with one 
terrific roar. 


173 


Now sweeps the tawny man on 
stormy steed, 
His gaudy trappings toss’d about and 
blown 
About the limbs as lithe as any reed; 


_ The swift long lasso twirl’d above is 


thrown 

From flying hand; the fall, the fearful 
groan 

Of bullock toil’d and tumbled in the 
dust— 

The black herds onward sweep, and 
all disown 

The fallen, struggling monarch that 
has thrust 

His tongue in rage and roll’d his red 
eyes in disgust. 


THE GREAT EMERALD LAND 


A morn in Oregon! The kindled | 


camp 

Upon the mountain brow that broke 
below 

In steep and grassy stairway to the 
damp . 

And dewy valley, snapp’d and flamed 
aglow * 


With knots of pine. Above, the 
peaks of snow, ie 

With under-belts of sable forest, rose 

And flash’d in sudden sunlight. To 
and fro 

And far below, in lines and winding 
rows, 

The herders drove their bands, and 

broke the deep repose. 


I heard their, shouts like sounding 

hunter’s horn, 

The lowing herds made echoes far 
away; 

When lo! the clouds came driving in 
with morn 

Toward the sea, as fleeing from the 
day. 

The valleys fill’d with curly clouds. 
They lay 

Below, a levell’d sea that reach’d and 
roll’d 

And broke like breakers of a stormy 
bay 

Against the grassy shingle fold on fold, 

So like some splendid ocean, snowy 
white and cold. 


174 


The peopled valley lay a hidden 

world, 

The shouts were shouts of drowning 
men that died, 

The broken clouds along the border 
curl’d, 

And bent the grass with weighty 
freight of tide. 

A savage stood in silence at my side, 

Then sudden threw aback his beaded 
strouds 

And stretch’d his hand above the 
scene, and cried, 

As all the land lay dead in snowy 
shrouds: 

“Behold! the sun bathes in a silver 
sea of clouds.”’ 


Here lifts the land of clouds! 

Fierce mountain forms, 

Made white with everlasting snows, 
look down 

Through mists of many cafions, 
mighty storms 

That stretch from Autumn’s purple, 
drench and drown 


The yellow hem of Spring. Tall 
cedars frown 
Dark-brow’d, through  banner’d 


clouds that stretch and stream 

Above the sea from snowy mountain 
crown. 

The heavens roll, and all things drift 
or seem 

To drift about and drive like some 
majestic dream. 


The Great Emerald Land 


In waning Autumn time, whe’ 
purpled skies | 
Begin to haze in indolence below 
The snowy peaks, you see black form 


arise, 

In rolling thunder banks above, an 
throw 

Quick barricades about the gleamin 
snow. 

The strife begins! The battlin 
seasons stand | 

Broad breast to breast. A flast 


Contentions grow 

Terrific. Thunders crash, and light 
nings brand 

The battlements. The clouds por 
sess the conquered land. | 


Then, clouds blow by, the swaz 

take loftier flight, 

The yellow blooms burst out upon 4 
hill, 

The purple camas comes as in a ni 

Tall spiked and dripping of the dew 
that fill 

The misty valley. Sunbeams brea 
and spill 

Their glory till the vale is full of noot 

Then roses belt the streams, no bir 
is still. 

The stars, as large as lilies, meet th 
moon 

And sing of summer, born thus suc 
den full and soon. 


Co Rest at Last 


175 


TO REST AT LAST 


What wonder that I swore a 
prophet’s oath 

Mi after days. . 
boughs apart, 

stood, look’d forth, and then look’d 
back, all loath 

fo leave my shadow’d wood. I 
gathered heart 

‘rom very fearfulness; with sudden 
start 

plunged in the arena; stood a wild 

Jncertain thing, all artless, in all 
ert. . 

the brave approved, the fair lean’d 
fair and smiled,— 

[rue lions touch with velvet-touch a 
timid child. 


I push’d the 


But now enough of men. Enough, 
brief day 
Mi tinsel’d life. The court, the castle 
gate 
(hat open’d wide along the pleasant 
way, 


(he gracious converse of the kingly 
great 
fad made another glad and well elate 


Vith all. A word of thanks; but I 
am grown 

\weary. . eam. not Lot ) this 
estate; 

(he poor, the plain brave border-men 
alone 


Vere my first love, and these I will 
_ not now disown. 


I know a grassy slope above the 
sea, 


The utmost limit of the westmost 
land. 


In savage, gnarl’d, and antique 
majesty 

The great trees belt about the place, 
and stand 


In guard, with mailéd limb and lifted 
hand, 

Against the cold approaching civic 
pride. 

The foamy brooklets seaward leap; 
the bland 

Still air is fresh with touch of wood 
and tide, 

And peace, eternal peace, possesses, 
wild and wide. 


Here I return, here I abide and 

and rest; 

some flocks and herds shall feed 
along the stream; 

Some corn and climbing vines shall 
make us blest 

With bread and luscious fruit. . . . 
The sunny dream 

Or wampum men in moccasins that 
seem 

To come and go in silence, girt in 
shell, > 

Before a sun-clad cabin-door, I deem 

The harbinger of peace. Hope 
weaves her spell 

Again about the wearied heart, and 
all is well. 


Here I shall sit in sunlit life’s 
decline 
Beneath my vine and somber verdant 
tree. 


176 To Rest at Last 


Some tawny maids in other tongues | The sun fall down upon the farth 


than mine sea, 
Shall minister. Some memories shall | Fall wearied down to rest, and | 

be retire, 
Before me. IshallsitandIshallsee, | A splendid sinking isle of far-<¢| 
That last vast day that dawn shall fading fire. | 

reinspire, 1 Wg o\ mee 


ISLES OF THE AMAZONS 


PART 1 


imeval forests! virgin sod! 

That Saxon has not ravish’d yet, 

Lol peak on peak in statrways set— 
stepping stairs that reach to God! 


re we are free as sea or wind, 

For here are set Time’s snowy tents 
In everlasting battlements 

ainst the march of Saxon mind. 


r up in the hush of the Amazon 
River, 

And mantled and hung in the 
tropical trees, 

There are isles as grand as the isles 
of seas. 

id the waves strike strophes, and 
keen reeds quiver, 

‘the sudden canoe shoots past them 
and over 

The strong, still tide to the opposite 
shore, 

Where the blue-eyed men by the 
sycamore 

t mending their nets ’neath the 
vine-twined cover; 


t weaving the threads of long, 

_ strong grasses; 

‘They wind and they spin on the 
clumsy wheel, 


Into hammocks red-hued with the 
cochineal, 
To trade with the single black ship 
that passes, 
With foreign old freightage of curious 
old store, 
And still and slow as if half 
asleep, — 
A cunning old trader that loves to 
creep 
Cautious and slow in the shade of the 
shore. 


And the blue-eyed men that are mild 
as the dawns— 
Oh, delicate dawns of the grand 
Andes! 
Lift up soft eyes that are deep like 
seas, 
And mild yet wild as the red-white 
fawns’ ; 


And they gaze into yours, then weave, 
then listen, 
Then look in wonder, then again 
weave on, 
Then again look wonder that you 
are not gone, 
While the keen reeds quiver and the 
bent waves glisten; 


But they say no word while they 
weave and wonder, 


179 


180 


Though they sometimes 
voiced low like the dove, 
And as deep and as rich as their 
tropical love, 
A-weaving their net threads through 
and under. 


sing, 


A pure, true people you may trust are 
these 
That weave their threads where the 
quick leaves quiver; 
And this is their tale of the Isles of 
the river, 
And the why that their eyes are so 
blue like seas; 


The why that the men draw water 
‘and bear 
The wine or the water in the wild 
boar skin, 
And do hew the wood and weave 
and spin, 
And so bear with the women full 
burthen and share. 


A curious old tale of a curious old 
time, 
That is told you betimes by a 
quaint old crone, 
Who sits on the rim of an island 
alone, 
As ever was told you in story or 
rhyme. 


Her brown, bare feet dip down to the 
river, 
And dabble and plash to her mono- 
tone, 
As she holds in her hands a strange 
green stone, 


Jsles of the A@Amaszons | 


And talks to the boat where the bi: 
reeds quiver. | 
And the quaint old crone has a | 
lar way 
Of holding her head to the side a 
askew, 
And smoothing the stone in i 
palms all day 
As saying “T’ve nothing at all 
you,’ 
Until you have anointed her k | 
and you 
Have touched on the delice! 
spring of a door 
That silver has opened perha; 
before; 
For woman is woman the wide bl 
through. 


The old near truth on the far 4 

shore, | 

I bought and I paid for it; so | 
you; 

The tale may be false or the te! 

may be true; | 


I give it as I got it, and who can mor, 


If I have made journeys to diffi. 
shores, | 
And woven delusions in innoce. 
verse, 
If none be the wiser, why, who 
the worse? 
The field it was mine, the fruit it. 
yours. 


A sudden told tale. 
as you run. 
A part of it hers, some part is ir 
own, 


You may rez 


Isles of the Amazons 


Crude, and too carelessly woven 
and sown, 

‘I sail’d on the Mexican seas in the 
sun. 


was nations ago, when the Ama- 
zons were, 

That a fair young knight—says the 
quaint old crone, 

With her head sidewise, as she 
smooths at the stone— 

ame over the seas, with his golden 
hair, 

ad a great black steed, and glitter- 
ing spurs, 

With a woman’s face, with a manly 
frown, 

A heart as tender and as true as 
hers, 

nd a sword that had come from 
crusaders down. 


nd fairest, and foremost in love as in 
war 

Was the brave young knight of the 
brave old days. 

Of all the knights, 
knightly ways, 

hat had journey’d away to this 

_ world afar 

1 the name of Spain; of the splendid 
few 

Who bore her banner in the new- 
born world, 


with their 


From the sea rim up to where 


clouds are curl’d, 
nd condors beat with black wings 
‘the blue. 


le was born, says the crone, where 
the brave are fair, 


181 


And blown from the banks of the 
Guadalquiver, 
And yet blue-eyed, with the Celt’s 
soft hair, 
With never a drop of the dark deep 
river 
Of Moorish blood that had swept 
through Spain, 
And plash’d the world with its tawny 
stain. 


He sat on his steed, and his sword was 
bloody 
With heathen blood: the battle 
was done; 
His heart rebelled and rose with pity. 
For crown’d with fire, wreathed and 
ruddy 
Fell antique temples built up to the 
sun. 
Below on the plain lay the burning 
city 
At the conqueror’s feet; the red 
street strown 
With dead, with gold, and with 
gods overthrown. 


And the heathen pour’d, in a helpless 
flood, 
With never a wail and with never a 
blow, 
At last, to even provoke a foe, 
Through gateways, wet with the 
pagan’s blood. 


‘“‘Ho, forward! smite!’’ but the min- 
strel linger’d, 
He reach’d his hand and he touch’d 
the rein, 
He humm’d an air, and he toy’d and 
finger’d 


182 


Jsles of the Amazons 


{ 


| 


The arching neck and the glossy | To the blue-eyed boy to return age 


mane. 


He rested the heel, he rested the hand, 
Though the thing was death to the 
man to dare 
To doubt, to question, to falter 
there, 
Nor heeded at all to the hot com- 
mand. 


He wiped his steel on his black steed’s 
mane, 
He sheathed it deep, then look’d at 
the sun, 
Then counted his comrades, one 
by one, 
With booty returning from the 
plunder’d plain. 


He lifted his face to the flashing snow, 
He lifted his shield of steel as he 


sang, 
And he flung it away till it clang’d 
and rang 
On the granite rocks in the plain 
below. 


He cross’d his bosom. Made over- 
bold, 
He lifted his voice and sang, quite 
low 
At first, then loud in the long ago, 
When the loves endured though the 
days grew old. 


They heard his song, the chief on the 
plain 
Stood up in his stirrups, and, sword 
in hand, 
He curs’d and he call’d with a 
loud command 


To lift his shield again to the sh, 
And come and surrender his sw 
or die. 


He wove his hand in the stormy ma: 
He lean’d him forward, he lifted 
rein, 
He struck the flank, he wheel’d | 
sprang, 
And gaily rode in the face of 1 I 
sun, 
And bared his sword and he bravi 
sang, 
‘Ho! come and take it!’’ but thi: 
came not one. 


And so he sang with his face to t} 
south: 
“T shall go; I shall search for t: 
Amazon shore, 
Where the curses of man thewel é} 
heard no more, 
And kisses alone shall embrace ‘| 
mouth. 


“‘T shall journey in search of the Inc 
Isles, 

Go far and away to tradition 

land, 

Where love is queen in a crown 

smiles, | 

And battle has never imbrued 
hand; 


““Where man has never despoil’d « 
trod; |: 
Where woman’s hand with | 
woman’s heart | 
Has fashion’d an Eden from ma 
apart, 


Isles of the Amazons 


183 


id walks in her garden alone with | And broken in two by the touch of a 


God. 


[ shall find that Eden, and all my 
years 

Shall sit and repose, shall sing in 
the sun; 

And the tides may rest or the tides 
may run, 

nd men may water the world with 
tears; 


And the years may come and the 
years may go, 

And men make war, may slay and 
be slain, 

ut I not care, for I never shall know 

Of man, or of aught that is man’s 
again. 


The waves may battle, the winds 
may blow, 
The mellow rich moons may ripen 
and fall, 
‘he seasons of gold they may gather 
or go, 
The mono may chatter, the paro- 
quet call, 
ind I shall not heed, take note, or 
know, 
If the Fates befriend, or if ill 
befall, 
Of worlds without or of worlds at 
all, 
Mf heaven above, or of hadés below.”’ 


Twas the song of a dream and the 
dream of a singer, 
Drawn fine as the delicate fibers of 
gold, 


finger, 

And blown as the winds blow, rent 
and roll’d 

In dust, and spent as a tale that is 
told. 


Alas! for his dreams and the songs he 
sung; 
The beasts beset him; the serpents 
they hung, 
Red-tongued and terrible, over his 
head. 
He clove and he thrust with his 
keen, quick steel, 
He coax’d with his hand, he urged 
with his heel, 
Till his steel was broken, and his steed 
lay dead. 


He toil’d to the river, he lean’d intent 
To the wave, and away to the 
islands fair, 
From beasts that pursued, and he 
breathed a prayer; 
For soul and body were well-nigh 
spent. 


’Twas the king of rivers, and the Isles 
were near; 
Yet it moved so strange, so still, so 
strong, 
It gave no sound, not even the song 
Of a sea-bird screaming defiance or 
fear. 


It was dark and dreadful! Wide like 
an ocean, 
Much like a river but more like a 
sea, 


1384 


Save that there was naught of the 
turbulent motion 
Of tides, or of winds blown abaft, 
or alee. | 


Yea, strangely strong was the wave 
and slow, 
And half-way hid in the dark, deep 
tide, 
Great turtles, they paddled them to 
and fro, 
And away to the Isles and the 
opposite side. 


The nude black boar through abun- 
dant grass 
Stole down to the water and buried 
his nose, 
And crunch’d- white teeth till the 
bubbles rose 
As white and as bright as are globes 
of glass. 


Yea, steadily moved it, mile upon 
mile, 
Above and below and as still as the 
air’ 
The bank made slippery here and 
there 
By the slushing slide of the crocodile. 


The great trees bent to the tide like 
slaves; 
They dipp’d their boughs as the 
stream swept on, 
And then drew back, then dipp’d 
and were gone 
Away to the sea with the resolute 
waves. 


The land was the tide’s; the shore was 
undone; 


Isles of the Amazons 


| 

It look’d as the lawless, unsatisfe. 
seas 

Had thrust up an arm through tt 
tangle of trees, 


And clutchd at the citrons that gre’ 
in the sun; 


And clutch’d at the diamonds the 
hid in the sand, 

And laid heavy hand on the gold, an 
a hand 

On the redolent fruits, on the ro 
like wine, 

On the stones like the stars when th 
stars are divine; 


Had thrust through the rocks of th’ 
ribb’d Andes; , 
Had wrested and fled; and had lef 
a waste 
And a wide way strewn in precipi 
tate haste, 
As he bore them away to th 
buccaneer seas. 


Oh heavens, the eloquent song of >| 
silence! 
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, ot 
the sod, 
And asleep in the sun lay the greet 
girdled islands, 
As rock’d to their rest in the cradle 
of God. 


God’s poet is silence! His song is 


unspoken, 
And yet so profound, so loud, and 
so far, 
It fills you, it thrills you with 


measures unbroken, 
And as still, and as fair, and as far 
as a Star. 


Isles of the Amasons 


he shallow seas moan. From the 
first they have mutter’d, 
Asa child that is fretted, and weeps 
atits will... 
‘he poems of God are too grand to 
be utter’d: 
The dreadful deep seas they are 
loudest when still. 


‘T shall fold my hands, for this is the 
river 
Of death,” he said, ‘“‘and the sea- 
green isle 
s an Eden set by the Gracious Giver 
Wherein to rest.’’ He listened the 
while, 
Then lifted his head, then lifted a 
hand 
Arch’d over his brow, and he lean’d 
and listen’d,— 


Twas only a bird on a border of 

sand,— 

The dark stream eddied 
gleam’d and glisten’d, 

And the martial notes from the 
isle were gone, 

Gone as a dream dies out with 
the dawn. 


and 


‘Twas only a bird on a border of 
sand, 
Slow piping, and diving it here 
and there, 
Slim, gray, and shadowy, light as 
the air, 
That dipp’d below from a point of the 
land. 


“Unto God a prayer and to love a 
tear, 


185 


And I die,” he said, ‘‘in a desert here, 

So deep that never a note is heard 

But the listless song of that soulless 
bird. 


‘‘The strong trees lean in their love 
unto trees, 
Lock arms in their loves, and are so 
made strong, 
Stronger than armies; aye, stronger 
than seas 
That rush from their caves in a 
storm of song. 


‘« A miser of old, his last great treasure 
Flung far in the sea, and he fell and 
he died; 
And so shall I give, O terrible tide, 
To you my song and my last sad 
measure.”’ 


He blew on a reed by the still, strong 
river, 
Blew low at first, like a dream, then 
long, 
Then loud, then loud as the keys that 
quiver, 
And fret and toss with their freight 
of song. 


He sang and he sang with a resolute 
will, 
Till the mono rested above on his 
haunches, 
And held his head to the side and was 
still,— 
Till a bird blown out of the night of 
branches 
Sang sadder than love, so sweeter 
than sad, 


186 


Till the boughs did burthen and 
and the reeds did fill 

With beautiful birds, and the boy 
was glad. 


Our loves they are told by the 
myriad-eyed stars, 
And love it is grand in a reasonable 
way, 
And fame it is good in its way fora 
day, 
Borne dusty from books and bloody 
from wars; 


And death, I say, is an aboslute need, 
And a calm delight, and an ulti- 
mate good; 
But a song that is blown from a 
watery reed 
By a soundless deep from a bound- 
less wood, 
With never a hearer to heed or to 
prize 
But God and the birds and the 
hairy wild beasts, 
Is sweeter than love, than fame, or 
than feasts, 
Or any thing else that is under the 
skies. 


The quick leaves quiver’d, and the 
sunlight danced; 
As the boy sang sweet, and the 
birds said, “‘Sweet;”’ 
And the tiger crept close and lay 
low at his feet, 
And he sheathed his claws as he 
listened entranced. 


The serpent that hung from the syca- 
more bough, 


Hsles of the Amazons 


And sway’d his head in a crescer 
above, 
Had folded his neck to the white tim 
now, 
And fondled it close like a grea 
black love. 


But the hands grew weary, the hear 

wax'd faint, 

The loud notes fell to a far-off plaint 

The sweet birds echo’d no more, “Oh 

sweet,”’ | 

The tiger arose and unsheathed hi 

claws, | 

The serpent extended his iron jaws 

And the frail reed shiver’d and fell ar 
his feet. - 


A sound on the tide! and he tured 
and cried, 
“Oh, give God thanks, for they! 
come, they come!”’ 
He ee out afar on the opaline 
tide, 
Then clasp’d his hands, and bis 
lips were dumb. 


A sweeping swift crescent of sudden 
canoes! 
As light as the sun of the south and | 
as soon, 
And true and as still as a sweet half | 
moon 
That leans from the heavens, and 
loves and woos! 


The Amazons came in their martial | 

pride, | 

As full on the stream as a studding 
of stars, 


Isles of the Amasong 


All girded in armor as girded in 
wars, 

In foamy white furrows dividing the 
tide. 


With a face as brown as the boat- 
men’s are, 
Or the brave, brown hand of a 
harvester ; 
The Queen on a prow stood splen- 
did and tall, 
As the petulant waters did lift and 
fall; 


Stood forth for the song, half lean’d 
in surprise, 
Stood fair to behold, and yet grand 
to behold, 
And austere in her face, 
saturnine-soul’d, 
And sad and subdued, in her eloquent 
eyes. 


and 


And sad were they all; yet tall and 


serene 
Of presence, but silent, and brow’d 
severe; 
As for some things lost, or for some 
fair, green, 
And beautiful place, to the memory 
dear. 
“O Mother of God! Thrice merciful 
saint! 
I am saved!’’ he said, and he wept 
outright; 


Ay, wept as even a woman might, 
For the soul was full and the heart 
was faint. 


“Stay! stay!’’ cried the Queen, and 
she leapt to the land, 


187 


And she lifted her hand, and she 
lowered their spears, 
“A woman! a woman! ho! help! give 
a hand! 
A woman! a woman! I know by the 
tears.’ 


Then gently as touch of the truest of 
woman, 
They lifted him up from the earth 
where he fell, 
And into the boat, with a half 
hidden swell 
Of the heart that was holy and 
tenderly human. 


They spoke low-voiced as a vesper 
prayer; 
They pillowed his head as only the 
hand 
Of woman can pillow, and push’d 
from the land, 
And the Queen she sat threading the 
gold of his hair. 
PART. Lt 
Forsake those People. What are 
they 
That laugh, that live, that love by rule? 
Forsake the Saxon. Wha are these 
That shun the shadows of the trees; 
The perfumed forests? . Go thy 
way, 
We are nat one. I will not please 
You:—fare you well, O wiser fool! 


But ye who love me:—Ye who love 
The shaggy forests, fierce delights 
Of sounding waterfalls, of heights 
That hang ltke broken moons above, 


188 


With brows of pine that brush the sun, 
Belteve and follow. We are one: 

The wild man shall to us be tame, 

The woods shall yield their mysteries; 
The stars shall answer to a name, 

And be as birds above the trees. 


They swept to their Isles through the 
furrows of foam; 
Thy alit on the land, as love hasten- 
ing home, 
And below the banana, with leaf like 
a tent, 
They tenderly laid him, they bade 
him take rest, 
They brought him strange fishes 
and fruits of the best, 
And he ate and took rest with a 
patient content. 


They watched so well that he rose up 
strong, 
And stood in their midst, and they 
said, ‘‘ How fair!’’ 
And they said, ‘‘ How tall!”’ 
they toy’d with his hair. 


And 


And they touched his limbs and they 
said, ‘‘ How long 
And how strong they are; and how 
brave she is, 
That she made her way through 
the wiles of man, 
That she braved his wrath, that she 
broke the ban 
Of his desolate life for the love of 
this!’ 


They wrought for him armor and 
cunning attire, 


Isles of the Amazons 


They brought him a sword ana i 
great shell shield, 
And implored him to shiver th 
lance on the field, 
And to follow their beautiful Quer 
in her ire. 


But he took him apart; then th 
Amazons came 
And entreated of him with thei 
eloquent eyes 
And their earnest and passionati 
souls of flame, 
And the soft, sweet words that are 
broken of sighs, 
To be one of their own, but he stil 
denied 
And bow’d and abash’d i stole 
further aside. 


He stood by the Palms and he me | 
in unrest, 
And standing alone, looked out 
and afar, 
For his own fair land where the| 
castles are, 
With irresolute arms on a restless 
breast. . 
He re-lived his loves, he recall’d his. 
wars, 
He gazed and he gazed with a soul 
distress’d, 
Like a far sweet star that is lost in 
the west, 
Till the day was broken to a dust of | 
stars. | 


They sigh’d, and they left him alone 
in the care 


Isles of the Amasons 


Of faithfullest matron; they moved 
to the field 
With the lifted sword and the 
sounding shield 
High fretting magnificent storms of 
hair. 


And, true as the moon in her march 
of stars, 
The Queen stood forth in her fierce 
attire 
Worn as they trained or worn in the 
wars, © 
As bright and as chaste as a flash 
of fire. 


With girdles of gold and of silver 
cross’d, 
And plaited, and chased, and 
bound together, 
Broader and stronger than belts of 
leather, 
Cunningly fashion’d and blazon’d 
and boss’d— 


With diamonds circling her, stone 
upon stone, 
Above the breast where the borders 
fail, 
Below the breast where the fringes 
| zone, 
She moved in a glittering garment 
of mail. 


‘The form made hardy and the waist 
made spare 
From athlete sports and adven- 
tures bold, 
The breastplate, 
clasps of gold, 


fasten’d with 


189 


Was clasp’d, as close as the breasts 
could bear,— 


And bound and drawn to a delicate 
span, 
It flash’d in the red front ranks of 
the field— 
Was fashion’d full trim in its in- 
tricate plan 
And gleam’d as a sign, as well as a 
shield, 


That the virgin Queen was unyield- 
ing still, 
And pure as the tides that around 
her ran; 
True to her trust, and strong in her 
will 
Of war, and hatred to the touch of 
man. 


The field it was theirs in storm or in 
shine, 
So fairly they stood that the foe 
came not 
To battle again, and the fair forgot 
The rage of battle; and they trimm’d 
the vine, 


They tended the fields of the tall 
green corn, 
They crush’d the grape and they 
drew the wine 
In the great round gourds and the 
bended horn— 
And they lived as the gods in the 
days divine. 


They bathed in the wave in the 
amber morn, 


190 


They took repose in the peaceful 
shade 
Of eternal palms, and were never 
afraid; 
Yet oft did they sigh, and look far 
and forlorn. 


Where the rim of the wave was weav- 

ing a spell, 
And the grass grew soft where it 

hid from the sun, 

Would the Amazons gather them 
every one 

At the call of the Queen or the sound 
of her shell: 


Would come in strides through the 
kingly trees, 
And train and marshal them brave 
and well | 
In the golden noon, in the hush of 
peace 
Where the shifting shades of the 
fan-palms fell; 


Would train till flush’d and as warm 
as wine: 
Would reach with their limbs, 
would thrust with the lance, 
Attack, retire, retreat and advance, 
Then wheel in column, then fall in 
line; 
Stand thigh and thigh with the limbs 
made hard 
And rich and round as the swift 
limb’d pard, 
Or a racer train’d, or a white bull 
caught 
In the lasso’s toils, where the tame 
are not: 


Isles of the Amazons | 


Would curve as the waves curve, 
swerve in line; — 
Would dash through the | | 
would train with the bow, 
Then back to the lines, now sud- 
den, then slow, 
Then flash their swords in the sun at 
a sign: 


Would settle the foot right firmly 
afront, 
Then sound the shield till the sound 
was heard 
Afar, as the horn in the black baa 
hunt; | 
Yet, strangest of all, say never one 
word. 


When shadows fell far from the west: 
ward, and when 
The sun had kiss’d hands and EA 
forth for the east, 
They would kindle carpanee and 
gather them then, 
Well-worn and most merry with| | 
song, to the feast. 
They sang of all things, but the one, 
sacred one, 
That could make them most glad, 
as they lifted the gourd 
And pass’d it around, with its rich 
purple hoard, 
From the island that lay with its 
face to the sun. 


Though lips were most luscious, and 
eyes as divine 
As the eyes of the skies that bend | 
down from above; 


Hsles of the Amazons 


Though hearts were made glad 
and most mellow with love, 

; dripping gourds drain’d of their 
burthens of wine; 

tough brimming, and dripping, and 

bent of their shape 

ere the generous gourds from the 
juice of the grape, 

aey could sing not of love, they 
could breathe not a thought 

‘the savor of life; of love sought, or 
unsought. 


heir loves they were not; they had 
banished. the name 

Of man, and the uttermost mention 
of love,— 

The moonbeams about them, the 
quick stars above, 

he mellow-voiced waves, they were 
ever the same, 

| sign, and in saying, of the old true 
lies; 

But they took no heed; no answer- 
ing sign, 

wwe glances averted and half-hush’d 

Sighs, 

Went back from the breasts with 

their loves divine. 


hey sang of free life with a will, and 
well, 

They had paid for it well when the 

price was blood; 

hey beat on the shield, and they 
_blew on the shell, 

When their wars were not, for they 

held it good 

0 be glad, and to sing the flush of 

_ the day, 


Ig! 


In an annual feast, when the 
broad leaves fell; 
Yet some sang not, and some 
sighed, ‘‘ Ah, well!’’— 
For there’s far less left you to sing or 
to Say, 
When mettlesome love is banish’d, I 
ween— 
To hint at as hidden, or to half 
disclose 
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, 
made keen 
With wine at a feast,—than one 
would suppose. 


So the days wore by but they brought 
no rest 
To the minstrel knight, though the 
sun was as gold, 
And the Isles were green, and the 
great Queen blest 
In the splendor of arms, and as 
pure as bold. 


He would now resolve to reveal to her 
all, 
His sex and his race in a well-timed 
song; 
And his love of peace, his hatred of 
wrong, 
And his own deceit, though the sun 
should fall. 


Then again he would linger, and knew 


not how 

He could best proceed, and deferr’d 
him now 

Till a favorite day, then the fair day 
came, 


And still he delay’d, and reproached 
him the same. 


192 


And he still said nought, but, subdu- 
ing his head 
He wander’d one day in a dubious 
spell 
Of unutterable thought of the truth 
unsaid, 
To the indolent shore, 
gather’d a shell, 
And he shaped its point to his pas- 
sionate mouth, 
And he turn’d to a bank and began 
to blow, 
While the Amazons trained in a 
troop below— 
Blew soft and sweet as a kiss of the 
south. 


and he 


The Amazons lifted with glad sur- 
prise, 
Stood splendid and glad and look’d 
far and fair, 
Set forward a foot, and shook back 
their hair, 
Like clouds push’d back from the 
sun-lit skies. 


It stirr’d their souls, and they ceased 
to train 
In troop by the shore, as the tremu- 
lous strain 
Fell down from the hill through 
the tasselling trees; 
And a murmur of song, like the 
sound of bees 
In the clover crown of a queenly 
spring, 
Came back unto him, and he laid 
the shell 
Aside on the bank, and began to sing 
Of eloquent love; and the ancient 
spell 


Isles of the Amazons 


| 
Of passionate song was his, and i 
Isle, | 
As waked to delight from 
slumber long, 
Came back in echoes; yet all t 
while 
He knew not at all the sin of 
song. 


PART. If 


Come, lovers, come, forget your pain 
I know upen this earth a spot 
Where clinking coins, that clan : 
chains, 
Upon the souls of men, are not; | 
Nor man is measured for his gains 
Of gold that stream with crimson stat. 


There snow-topp’d towers crush } 


clouds 
And break the still abode of stars, 
Like sudden ghosts in snowy shroud 
New broken through their earth 
bars, 
And condors whet their crooked beak 
On lofty limits of the peaks. : 


O men that fret as frets the main! — 
You irk me with your eager gaze 
Down tn the earth for fat increase: 

Eternal talks of gold and gain, 

Your shallow wit, your shallow wa. 

And breaks my soul across the shoal 

As breakers break on shallow seas. | 


They bared their brows to the pali 

above, | 

But some look’d level into co: 
rades’ eyes, 


Isles of the Amazons 


nd they then remember’d that the 

thought of love 

Tas the thing forbidden, and they 
sank in sighs. 


‘hey turned from the training, to 
heed in throng 
To the old, old tale; and they 
trained no more, 
As he sang of love; and some on the 
shore, 
ind full in the sound of the eloquent 
song, 


Vith womanly air and an irresolute 
will 
Went listlessly onward as gathering 
shells; 
Then gazed in the waters, as bound 
by spells; 
Then turned to the song and so sigh’d, 
and were still. 


{nd they saidno word. Some tapp’d 
on the sand 

With the sandal’d foot, 
time to the sound, 

in a sort of dream; some timed with 
the hand, 

_ And one held eyes full of tears to 

the ground. 


keeping 


She thought of the days when their 

__ wars they were not, 

_ As she lean’d and listened to the 

__ old, old song, 

When they sang of their loves, and 
she well forgot 

Man’s hard oppressions and a world 
of wrong. 


13 


193 


Like a pure true woman, with her 
trust in tears 
And the things that are true, she 
relieved them in thought, 
Though hush’d and crush’d in the fall 
of the years; 
She lived but the fair, and the false 
she forgot. 


As a tale long told, or as things that 
are dreams 
The quivering curve of the lip it 
confest 
The silent regrets, and the soul that 
teems 
With a world of love in a brave 
true breast. 


Then this one, younger, who had 
known no love, 
Nor look’d upon man but in blood 
on the field, 
She bow’d her head, and she leaned 
on her shield. 
And her heart beat quick as the wings 
of a dove 
That is blown from the sea, where 
the rests are not 
In the time of storms; and by in- 
stinct taught 
Grew pensive, and sigh’d; as she 
thought and she thought 
Of some wonderful things, and—she 
knew not of what. 


Then this one thought of a love for- 
saken, 
She thought of a brown sweet babe, 
and she thought 
Of the bread-fruits gather’d, of the 
swift fish taken 


194 


In intricate nets, like a love well 
sought. 


She thought of the moons of her 
maiden dawn, 
Mellow’d and fair with the forms 
of man; 
So dearer indeed to dwell upon 
Than the beautiful waves that 
around her ran: 
So fairer indeed than the fringes of 
light 
That lie at rest on the west of the 
sea 
In furrows of foam on the borders of 
night, 
And dearer indeed than the songs 
to be— 


Than calling of dreams from the 
opposite land, 
To the land of life, and of journeys 
dreary, 
When the soul goes over from the 
form grown weary, 
And walks in the cool of the trees on 
the sand. 


But the Queen was enraged and 
would smite him at first 

With the sword unto death, yet it 
seemed that she durst 

Not touch him at all; and she moved 
as to chide, 

And she lifted her face, and she 
frown’d at his side, 

Then she touch’d on his arm; then 
she looked in his eyes 

And right full in his soul, but she 

saw no fear, 


Asles of the Amasons 


In the pale fair face, and with fro: 
severe 

She press’d her lips as suppress: 
her sighs. | 


She banish’d her wrath, she unbeni| 
her face, 
She lifted her hand and put ba 
his hair 
From his fair sad brow, with 
penitent air, | 
And forgave him all with unutter 
grace. 


But she said no word, yet no more w 
severe; 
She stood as subdued by the sii 
of him still, 
Then averted her face with a res 
lute will, 
As to hush a regret, or to hide bade 
tear. 


She sighed to herself: “A stranger | 
this, 
And ill and alone, that knows ne 
at all 
That a throne shall totter and th 
strong shall fall, 
At the mention of love and its bane 
fullest bliss. 


‘“‘O life that is lost in bewilderin 
love— 
But a stranger is sacred!’’ Sh 
lifted a hand | 
And she laid it as soft as the breast 0 
a dove | 
On the minstrel’s mouth. 
more than the wand 


It wa 


Jsles of the Amaszons 


195 


f the tamer of serpents, for she did | The palm-trees lorded the scope like 


no more 
Than to bid with her eyes and to 
beck with her hand, 
nd the song drew away to the waves 
of the shore; 
‘ook wings, as it were, to the verge 
of the land. 


‘ut her heart was oppress’d. With 
penitent head 

he turned to her troop, and retiring, 
she said: 

‘Mas! and alas! shall it come to pass 

‘hat the panther shall die from a 
blade of grass? 


‘That the tiger shall yield at tne 
benthorn’s blast? 
That we, who have conquer’d a 
world and all 
Of men and of beasts in the world 
must fall 
Jurselves at the mention of love at 
last?” 


The tall Queen turn’d with her 

_ troop; 

She led minstrel and all to the 
innermost part 

Mf the palm-crowned Isle, where 
great trees group 

[n armies, to battle when black- 
storms start, 

And made a retreat from the sun by 
the trees 

That are topp’d like tents, where 

’ the fire-flies 

_ Are a light to the feet, and a fair 
lake lies, 

As cool as the coral-set center of seas. 


kings, 
Their tall tops tossing the indolent 
clouds 
That folded the Isle in the dawn, 
like shrouds, | 
Then fled from the sun like to living 
things. 


The cockatoo swung in the vines 
below, 
And muttering hung on a golden 
thread, 
Or moved on the moss’d bough to 
and fro, 
In plumes of gold and array’d in 
red. 
The lake lay hidden away from the 
light, 
As asleep in the Isle from the tropical 
noon, 
And narrow and bent like a new- 
born moon, 
And fair as a moon in the noon of the 
night. 


'Twas shadow’d by forests, and 
fringed by ferns, 
And fretted anon by red fishes that 
leapt 
At indolent flies that slept or kept 
Their drowsy tones on the tide by 
turns. 


And here in the dawn when the Day 
was strong 
And newly aroused from leafy 
repose, 
With dews on his feet and tints of 
the rose 


196 


In his great flush’d face was a sense 
of song 

That the tame old world has not 
known or heard. 


The soul was filled with the soft 


perfumes, 

The eloquent wings of the humming 
bird 

Beguiled the heart, they purpled 
the air 


And allured the eye, as so everywhere 
On the rim of the wave or across it 
in swings, 
They swept or they sank in a sea of 
blooms, 
And wove and wound in a song of 
wings. 


A bird in scarlet and gold, made mad 
With sweet delights, through the 
branches slid 
And kiss’d the lake on a drowsy lid 
Till the ripples ran and the face was 
glad; 


Was glad and lovely as lights that 
sweep 

The face of heaven when the stars 
are forth 

In autumn time through the 

sapphire north, 

Or the face of a child when it smiles 
in sleep. 


And here came the Queen, in the 
tropical noon, 
When the wars and the world and 
all were asleep, 
And nothing look’d forth to betray 
or to peep 


Jsles of the Amazons 


| Through the glories of jungle | : 
garments of June, 
To bathe with her court in t 
waters that bent 
In the beautiful lake through tass. 


ing trees, 
And the tangle of blooms in a burd 
of bees, 
As bold and as sharp as a be 
unspent. 
And strangely still, and mo 


strangely sweet, 
Was the lake that lay in its crac 
of fern, 
As still as a moon with her | 
that turn 
In the night, like lamps to whi 
delicate feet. 


They came and they stood by 1 
brink of the tide, 
They hung their shields on th 
boughs of the trees, 
They lean’d their lances against 1 
side, 
Unloosed their sandals, and bus 
as bees 
Ungather’d their robes 
rustle of leaves 
That wound them as close as tt 
Wwine-vine weaves. 


in _ 


The minstrel then falter’d, and fu: 
ther aside 
Than ever before he averted h' 
head; 
He pick’d up a pebble and fretted th 
tide 
Afar, with a countenance flushe 
and red. | 


Isles of the Amazons 


fe feign’d him ill, he wander’d away, 
He sat him down by the waters 
alone, 
nd pray’d for pardon, as a knight 
should pray, 
And rued an error not all his own. 


‘he Amazons press’d to the girdle of 
reeds, 
Two and by two they advanced to 
the tide, 
They challenged each other, they 
laughed in their pride, 
ind banter’d, and vaunted of valor- 
ous deeds. 


‘hey push’d and they parted the 
curtains of green, 
All timid at first; then looked in the 
wave 
And laugh’d; retreated, then came 
up brave 
fo the brink of the water, led on by 
their Queen. 


\gain they retreated, again advanced, 
Then parted the boughs in a proud 
disdain, 
‘hen bent their heads to the waters, 
and glanced 
Below, then blush’d, and then 
laughed again. 


\ bird awaken’d; then all dismayed 
With a womanly sense of a beauti- 
_ ful shame 
That strife and changes had left 
the same 
‘hey shrank to the leaves and the 
somber shade. 


197 


At last, press’d forwardabeautiful pair 
And leapt to the wave, and laugh- 
ing they blushed 
As rich as their wines; when the 
waters rush’d 
To the dimpled limbs, and laugh’d in 
their hair. 


The fair troop follow’d with shouts 
and cheers, 
They cleft the wave, and the 
friendly ferns 
Came down in curtains and curves 
by turns, 
And a brave palm lifted a thousand 
spears. 


From under the ferns and away from 
the land, 
And out in the wave until lost 
below, 
There lay, as white as a bank of 
snow, 
A long and beautiful border of sand. 


Here clothed alone in their clouds of 
hair 
And curtain’d about by the palm 
and fern, 
And made as their maker had made 
them, fair, 
And splendid of natural curve and 
turn; 
Untrammel’d by art and untroubled 
by man 
They tested their strength, or tried 
their speed: 
And here they wrestled, and there 
they ran, 
As supple and lithe as the watery 
reed. 


198 


The great trees shadow’d the bow- 
tipp’d tide, 
And nodded their plumes from the | 
opposite side, 
As if to whisper, Take care! take 
care! 
But the meddlesome sunshine here 
and there 
Kept pointing a finger right under 
the trees,— 
Kept shifting the branches and 
wagging a hand 
At the round brown limbs on the 
border of sand, 
And seem’d to whisper: Fie! what 
are these? 


The gold-barr’d butterflies to and 
fro 
And over the waterside wander’d 
and wove 
As heedless and idle as clouds that 
rove 
And drift by the peaks of perpetual 
snow. 


A monkey swung out from a bough 
in the skies, 
White-whisker’d and ancient, and 
wisest of all 
Of his populous race, when he 
heard them call 
And he watch’d them long, with his 
head sidewise. 


He wondered much and he watch’d 
them all 
From under his brows of amber and 
brown, 
All patient and silent, and never 
once stirr’d 


Isles of the Amazons 


Till he saw two wrestle, a 
wrestling fall; 
Then he arched his brows and ] 
hasten’d him down 
To his army below and said ney) 
a word. | 


PART IV 


There ts many a love in the land, n 
love, 
But never a love like this 1s; 
Then kill me dead with your love, n 
love, 
And cover me up with kisses. 


Yea, kill me dead and cover me deep | 
Where never a soul discovers; 

Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep, 
In the darlingest tomb of lovers. 


The wanderer took him apart fro: 
the place; 
Look’d up in the boughs at th 
gold birds there, 
He envied the humming-birds { fre 
ting the air, 
And frowned at the butterflies fs 
ning his face. 


He sat him down in a crook of th) 
wave 4 
And away from the Amazon 
under the skies 
Where great trees curved to a leai 
lined cave, 
And he lifted his hands and al 
shaded his eyes: 


And he held his head to the nort’ 
when they came 


Isles of the Amaszons 


199 


To run on the reaches of sand from | He bended his head and he shaded 


the south, 

And he pull’d at his chin, and he 
pursed his mouth, 

id he shut his eyes, with a sense of 
shame. 


2 reach’d and he shaped a bamboo 
reed 

From the brink below, and began 
to blow 

; if to himself; as the sea sometimes 

Does soothe and soothe in a low, 
sweet song, 

When his rage is spent, and the 

__ beach swells strong 

ith sweet repetitions of alliterate 
rhymes. 


he echoes blew back from the in- 
dolent land; 

Silent and still sat the tropical 
bird, 

And only the sound of the reed was 
heard, 

s the Amazons ceased from their 
sports on the sand. 


‘hey rose from the wave, and inclin- 
ing the head, 
They listened intent, with the 
delicate tip 
Of thefinger touch’d to the pouting 
lip, 
fill the brown Queen turn’d in the 
- tide, and led 
Through the opaline lake, and 
under the shade, 
To the shore where the chivalrous 
singer played. 


his eyes 
As well as he might with his lifted 
fingers, 
And ceased to sing. But in mute 
surprise 
He saw them linger as a child that 
lingers 
Allured by a song that has ceased 
in the street, 
And looks bewilder’d about from its 
play, 
For the last loved notes that fell at 
its feet. 


How the singer was vexed; he averted 
his head; 
He lifted his eyes, looked far and 
wide 
For a brief, little time; but they 
bathed at his side 
In spite of his will, or of prayers well 
said. 


He press’d four fingers against each 
lid, 

Till the light was gone; yet for all 
that he did 

It seem’d that the lithe forms lay and 
beat 

Afloat in his face and full under his 
feet. 


He seem’d to behold the billowy 
breasts, 

And the rounded limbs in the rest or 
unrests— 

To see them swim as the mermaid 
swims, 

With the drifting, dimpled delicate 
limbs, 


200 


Folded or hidden or reach’d or 
caress’d. 


It seems to me there is more that 
sees 
Than the eyes in man; you may 
close your eyes, 
You may turn your back, and may 
still be wise 
In sacred and marvelous mysteries. 
He saw as one sees the sun of a 
noon 
In the sun-kiss’d south, when the 
eyes are closed— 
He saw as one sees the bars of a moon 
That fall through the boughs of the 
tropical trees, 
When he lies at length, and is all 
composed, 
And asleep in his hammock by the 
sundown seas. 
He heard the waters beat, bubble and 
fret; 
He lifted his eyes, yet forever they 
lay 
Afloat in the tide; and he turn’d 
him away 
And resolved to fly and for aye to 
forget. 


He rose up strong, and he cross’d him 
twice, 
He nerved his heart and he lifted 
his head, 
He crush’d the treacherous reed in a 
trice, 
With an angry foot, and he turn’d 
and fled. 
Yet flying, he hurriedly turn’d his 
head 


Isles of the Amaszons | 


With an eager glance, with med 
some eyes, 
As a woman will turn; and he sé 
arise | 
The beautiful Queen from t 
silvery bed. 
She toss’d back her hair, and s. 
turned her eyes 
With all of their splendor to he 
he fled; 
Ay, all their glory, and a stran, 
surprise, 
And a sad renee and a wor, 
unsaid. 


Then she struck their shields, th 
rose in array, 
As roused from a trance, ar 
hurriedly came 


From out of the wave. He wander 

away, 

Still fretting his sensitive soul wit 
blame. 


Alone he sat in the shadows at noo}, 
Alone he sat by the waters at nigh'| 
Alone he sang, as a woman might 

With pale, kind face to the pale, col 


moon. 


He would here advance, and woul 
there retreat, 
As a petulant child that has lost it 
way y 
In the redolent walks of a sultr 
day, 
And wanders around with irresolut: 
feet. 


le made him a harp of mahogany 
wood, 
He strung it well with the sounding 
strings 
Of astrong bird’s thews, and from 
ostrich wings, 
\nd play’d and sang in a sad, sweet 
rune. 
He hang’d his harp in the vines, 
and stood 
3y the tide at night, in the palms at 
noon, 
And lone as a ghost in the shadowy 
wood. 


[Then two grew sad, and alone sat 
she 

_ By the great, strong stream, and 
she bow’d her head, 

Then lifted her face to the tide, and 
said: 


‘O pure as a tear and as strong as a 
sea, 
“Yet tender to me as the touch of a 
dove, 
{had rather sit sad and alone by thee, 
Than to go and be glad, with a 
legion in love.”’ 


) 
\ 


She sat one time at the wanderer’s 
side 
As the kingly water went wander- 
ing by; 
_ And the two once look’d, and they 
| knew not why, 
Full sad in each other’s eyes, and 
they sigh’d. 


She courted the solitude under the 
\ ram 


Isles of the Amazons 


201. 


Of the trees that reach’d to the re- 
solute stream, 
And gazed in the waters as one in a 
dream, 
Till her soul grew heavy and her eyes 
- grew dim. 


She bow’d her head with a beautiful 
grief 
That grew from her pity; she for- 
got her arms, 
And she made neglect of the battle 
alarms 
That threaten’d the 
banana’s leaf 
Made shelter; he lifted his harp 


land?’ the 


again, 
She sat, she listen’d intent and 
long, 
Forgetting her care and forgetting 
her pain— 


Made sad for the singer, made 
glad for his song. 


And the women waxed cold; the 
white moons waned, 
And the brown Queen marshall’d 
them never once more, 
With sword and with shield, in the 
palms by the shore; 
But they sat them down to repose, or 
remain’d 
Apart and scatter’d in the tropic- 
leaf’d trees, 
Assadden’d by song, or for loves 
delay’d; 
Or away in the Isle in couples they 
stray’d, 
Not at all content in their Isles of 
peace. 


202 


They wander’d away to the lakes once 
more, 
Or walk’d in the moon, or they 
sigh’d or slept, 
Or they sat in pairs by the shadowy 
shore, 
And silent song with the waters 
kept. 


There was one who stood by the 
waters one eve, 
With the stars on her hair, and the 
bars of the moon 
Broken up at her feet by the 
bountiful boon 
Of extending old trees, who did 
questioning grieve; 


“The birds they go over us two and 
by two; 
The mono is mated; his bride in the 
boughs 
Sits nursing his babe, and his pas- 
sionate vows 
Of love, you may hear them the whole 
day through. 


“The lizard, the cayman, the white- 
tooth’d boar, 
The serpents that glide in the 
sword-leaf’d grass, 
The beasts that abide or the birds 
that pass, 
They are glad in their loves as the 
green-leaf’d shore. 


“There is nothing that is that can 
yield one bliss 
Like an innocent love; the leaves 
have tongue 


sles of the Amazons © 


And the tides talk low in the reed 

and the young | 

And the quick buds open their HP 
but for this. 


‘‘In the steep and the starry silences 
On the stormy levels of the limit 
less seas, 
Or here in the deeps of the dark 
brow’d trees, 
There is nothing so much as a bray 
man’s kiss. 


“There is nothing so strong, in th: 
stream, on the land, 
In the valley of palms, on thy 
pinnacled snow, 
In the clouds of the gods, on th 
grasses below 
As the silk-soft touch of a baby’: 
brown hand. 


“It were better to sit and to spin ong 
stone 
The whole year through with ¢ 
babe at the knee, 
With its brown hands reaching 
caressingly, 
Than to sit in a girdle of gold ané 
alone. 


“It were better indeed to be mothers 
of men, 
And to murmur not much; there 
are clouds in the sun. | 
Can a woman undo what the al 
have done? | 
Nay, the things must be as the thing 
have been.” 


Jsles of the Amazons 


‘hey wander’d well forth, some 
here and some there, 

Unsatisfied some and irresolute all. 

The sun was the same, the moon- 
light did fall 

tich-barr’d and refulgent; the stars 

were as fair 

\s ever were stars; the fruitful clouds 

_ cross’d 

_ And the harvest fail’d not; yet the 
fair Isles grew 

_ Asa prison to all, and they search’d 
on through 

[he magnificent shades as for things 
that were lost. 


The minstrel, more pensive, went 
deep in the wood, . 
_ And oft-time delay’d him the whole 
day through, 
As charm’d by the deeps, or the sad 
heart drew 
Some solaces sweet from the solitude. 


The singer forsook them at last, and 
the Queen 
_ Came seldom then forth from the 
_ fierce deep wood, 
And her warriors, dark-brow’d and 
bewildering stood 
In bands by the wave in the com- 
plicate screen 
Of overbent boughs. 
lean on their spears 
' And would sometimes talk, low- 
voiced and by twos, 
As allured by longings they could 
not refuse, 
And would sidewise look, as beset by 
their fears. 


They would 


203 


Once, wearied and _ sad, 
shadowy trees 
In the flush of the sun they sank 
to their rests, 
The dark hair veiling the beautiful 
breasts 
That rose in billows, as mists veil 
seas. 


by the 


Then away to the dream-world one 
by one; 
The great red sun in his purple was 
roll’d, 
And red-wing’d birds and the birds 
of gold 
Were above in the trees like the 
beams of the sun. 


Then the sun came down, on his 
ladders of gold 
Built up of his beams, and the 
souls arose 
And ascended on these, and the 
fair repose 
Of the negligent forms was a feast to 
behold. 


The round brown limbs they were 
reach’d or drawn, 
The grass made dark with the 
fervour of hair; 
And here were the rose-red lips and 
there 
A flush’d breast rose like a sun at a 
dawn. 


Then black-wing’d birds flew over in 
pair, 
Listless and slow, as they call’d of 
the seas 


204 


Isles of the Amasong 


And sounds came down through | A sentry bent low on her palms at 


the tangle of trees 
As lost, and nestled, and hid in their 
hair. 


They started disturb’d, they sprang 
as at war 
To lance and to shield; but the 
dolorous sound 
Was gone from the wood; they 
gazed around 
And saw but the birds, black-wing’d 
and afar. 


They gazed at each other, then turn’d 
them unheard, 
Slow trailing their lances, in long 
single line; 
They moved through the forest, all 
dark as the sign 
Of death that fell down from the 
ominous bird. 


Then the great sun died, and a rose- 
red bloom 
Grew over his grave in a border of 
gold, 
And a cloud with a silver-white 
rim was roll’d 
Like a cold gray stone at the door of 
his tomb. 


Strange voices were heard, sad visions 
were seen 
By sentries, betimes, on the op- 
posite shore, 
Where broad boughs bended their 
curtains of green 
Far over the wave with their 
tropical store. 


she peer’d 
Suspiciously through; and, heaver 
aman, 
Low-brow’d and wicked, looked bag! 
ward, and jeer’d 
And taunted right full in her fa 
as he ran: 


A low crooked man, with eyes like 
bird ,— 

As round and as cunning,—who can 
from the land 

Of lakes, where the clouds lie | 

and at hand, 

And the songs of the bent black swat 
are heard; 


Where men are most cunning an 
cruel withal, 
And are famous as spies, and a 
supple and fleet, 
And are webb’d like the wate 
fowl under the feet, 
And they swim like the swans, an 
like pelicans call. a | 


| 
} 
| 
i 


And again, on a night when the moo 
she was not, 
A sentry saw stealing, as still as 
dream, ! 
A sudden canoe down the mid c 
the stream, 
Like the dark boat of death, and a 
stillasa thought. 


And lo! as it pass’d, from the proy 
there arose 
A dreadful and gibbering, Hae 
old man, 


Isles of the Amazons 


Loud laughing as only a maniac 
can, 

nd shaking a lance at the land of his 
foes; 

hen sudden it vanish’d, as still as it 

| = came, 

Far down through the walls of the 
shadowy wood, 

nd the great moon rose like a forest 
aflame, 

All threat’ning, sullen, and red like 

blood. 


PART V 

Well, we have threaded through and 
through 

‘he gloaming forests, Fairy Isles, 

float in sun and summer smiles, 

sfallen stars in fields of blue; 

ome futile wars with subtile love 

“hat mortal never vanquish’d yet, 

ome symphonies by angels set 

n wave below, in bough above, 

Vere yours and mine; but here adieu. 


And if 1t come to pass some days 
“hat you grow weary, sad, and you 
Aft up deep eyes from dusty ways 
mart and moneys to the blue 
(nd pure cold waters, isle and vine, 
nd bathe you there, and then arise 
tefresh’d by one fresh thought of mine, 
‘rest content: I kiss your eyes, 

Riss your hair, in my delight: 
‘kiss my hand, and say, ‘‘ Good-night.”’ 


tell you that love is the bitterest 
sweet 
_ That ever laid hold on the heart of 
aman; 


205 


A chain to the soul, and to cheer as 
a ban, 
And a bane to the brain and a snare 
to the feet. 


Aye! who shall ascend on the hollow 
white wings 
Of love but to fall; to fall and to 
learn, 
Like a moth, or a man, that the 
lights lure to burn, 
That the roses have thorns and the 
honey-bee stings? 


I say to you surely that grief shall 
befall; 
I lift you my finger, I caution you 
crue, 
And yet you go forward, laugh 
gaily, and you 
Must learn for yourself, then lament 
for us all. 


You had better be drown’d than to 
love and to dream. 
It were better to sit on a moss- 
grown stone, 
And away from the sun, forever 
alone, 
Slow pitching white pebbles at trout 
in a stream. 


Alas for a heart that must live forlorn! 
If you live you must love; if you 
love, regret— 
It were better, perhaps, had you 
never been born, 
Or better, at least, you could well 
forget. 


206 


The clouds are above us and snowy 
and cold, 
And what is beyond but the steel 
gray sky, 
And the still far stars that twinkle 
and lie 
Like the eyes of a love or delusions of 
gold! 


Ah! who would ascend? The clouds 
are above. 
Aye! all things perish; to rise is to 
fall. 
And alack for lovers, and alas for 
love, 
And alas that we ever were born 


atiall; 


The minstrel now stood by the border 
of wood, 
But now not alone; with a resolute 
heart 
He reach’d his hand, like to one 
made strong, 
Forgot his silence and resumed his 
song, 
And aroused his soul, and assumed his 
part 
With a passionate will, in the palms 
where he stood. 


‘‘She is sweet as the breath of the 
Castile rose, 
She is warm to the heart as a world 
of wine, 
And as rich to behold as the rose that 
grows 
With its red heart bent to the tide 
of the Rhine. 


Isles of the Amazons 


| 
“T shall sip her lips as the ie | 
bees sup 
From the great gold heart of 
buttercup! 
I shall live and love! 
my day, 
And die in my time, and tn sh 
gainsay? | 


I shall ha 


‘‘What boots me the battles thal 
have fought 
With self for honor? My bra 
resolves? 
And who takes note? The s/ 
dissolves | 
In a sea of love, and the wars ¢ 
forgot. | 
| 
‘‘The march of men, and the drift! 
ships, 
The dreams of fame, and desi! 
for gold, 
Shall go for aye as a tale that 
told, 
Nor divide for a day my lips fre 
her lips. 


‘‘And a knight shall rest, and ne 
shall say nay, 
In a green Isle wash’d by an | 
of the seas, 
And walled from the world by ' 
white Andes: 
The years are of age and can go thy 


? 


way. 


| 

A sentinel stood on the farth, 
most land, 

And struck her shield, and her E | 

in hand, 


| She cried, ‘‘He comes with his 
silver spears, 

‘ith flint-tipp’d arrows and bended 

bows, 

| To take our blood though we give 

| him tears, 

And to flood our Isle in a world of 


: 
- woes! 


He comes, O Queen of the sun-kiss’d 

ie Isle, 

_He comes as a wind comes, blown 

_ from the seas, 

In cloud of canoes, on the curling 
breeze, 

fith his shields of tortoise and of 

crocodile!” 


weeter than swans’ are a maiden’s 
graces! 

Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of 
morn! 

Sweeter than babes’ is a love new- 
born, 

ut sweeter than all are a love’s 
embraces. 


he Queen was at peace. Her terms 
of surrender 

0 love, who knows? and who can 
| defend her? 

ne slept at peace, and the sentry’s 
: warning 

(Could scarce awaken the love- 
conquer’d Queen; 

|She slept at peace in the opaline 
ush and blush of that tropical 


morning; 


‘od bound about by the twining glory, 


Vine and trellis in the vernal morn, 


Jsles of the Amaszong 


207 


As still and sweet as a babe new- 
born, 
The brown Queen dream’d of the old 
new story. 


But hark! her sentry’s passionate 
words, 

The sound of shields, and the clash 
of swords! 

And slow she came, her head on her 
breast, 

And her two hands held as to plead 
for rest. 


Where, O where, were the Juno 
graces? 
Where, O where, was the glance of 
Jove, 
As the Queen came forth from the 
sacred places, 
Hidden away in the heart of the 
grove? 


They rallied around as of old,—they 
besought her, 
With swords to the sun and the 
sounding shield, 
To lead them again to the glorious 
field, 
So sacred to Freedom; and, breath- 
less, they brought her 
Her buckler and sword, and her armor 
all bright 
With a thousand gems enjewell’d in 
gold. 
She lifted her head with the look of 
old 
An instant only; with all of her 
might 
She sought to be strong and majestic 
again: 


208 


She bared them her arms and her 
ample brown breast; 
They lifted her armor, they strove 
to invest 
Her form in armor, but they strove in 
vain. 


‘It could close no more, but it clang’d 
on the ground, 

Like the fall of a knight, with an 
ominous sound, 

And she shook her hair and 
cried ‘‘ Alas! 

That love should come and liberty 
pass: 

And she cried, ‘‘Alas! to be cursed 

. and bless’d 

For the nights of love and noons of 

rest.’’ 


she 


Her warriors wonder’d; they wan- 
der’d apart, 
And trail’d their swords, and sub- 
dued their eyes 
To earth in sorrow and in hush’d 
surprise, 
And forgot themselves in their pity 
of heart. 


“O Isles of the sun,” 
eyed youth, 
““O Edens new-made and let down 
from above! 
Be sacred to peace and to passion- 
ate love, 
Made happy in peace and made holy 
with truth.” 


sang the blue- 


The fair Isle fill’d with the fierce 
invader; 


Isles of the Amasons 


They form’d on the strand, tk 
lifted their spears, 
Where never was man for ye 
and for years, | 
And moved on the Queen. § 
lifted and laid her | 
Finger-tips to her lips. For O sw 
Was the song of love as the | 
new-born, 
That the minstrel blew in the vir, 
morn, | 
Away where the trees and the s 
sands meet. 


The strong men lean’d and th 
shields let fall, 
And slowly they came with th 
trailing spears, | 
And heads bow’d down as if be 
with years, 
And an air of gentleness over them: i 


The men grew glad as the song | 
cended, | 
They lean’d their lances aga 
the palms, . | 
They reach’d their arms as to ree! 
for alms, | 
And the Amazons came—and th! 
reign was ended. 


The tawny old crone here tay | 
stone | 
On the leaning grass and reache 
hand; 
The day like a beautiful dream b 
flown, 
The curtains of night come do’ 
on the land, 


Qn Indian Summer 


nd I dip to the oars; but ere I 
£0, 

tip her an extra bright pesos 
or SO, 


209 


And I smile my thanks, for I think 
them due: 

But, reader, fair reader, now what 
think you? 


AN INDIAN SUMMER 


The world it is wide; men go thetr 

ways 

‘ut love he is wise, and of ail the hours 

nd of all the beautiful sun-born days, 

le sips their sweets as the bee stps 
flowers. 


The sunlight lay in gather’d 
sheaves 

\long the ground, the golden leaves 

ossess’d the land and lay in bars 

\bove the lifted lawn of green 

3eneath the feet, or fell, as stars 

tall, slantwise, shimmering and still 

Jpon the plain, upon the hill, 

\nd heaving hill and plain between. 


| 
i 


_ Some steeds in panoply were seen, 

Strong, martial trained, with manes 

\aaein air, 

And tassell’d reins and mountings 
rare; 

Some silent people here and there, 

That gather’d leaves with listless will, 

Or moved adown the dappled green, 

Or look’d away with idle gaze 

‘Against the gold and purple haze. 

You might have heard red leaflets fall, 

The pheasant on the farther hill, 

A single, lonely, locust trill, 

Or sliding sable cricket call 

From out the grass, but that was all. 


14 


A wanderer of many lands 
Was I, a weary Ishmaelite, 
That knew the sign of lifted hands; 
Had seen the Crescent-mosques, had 

seen 

The Druid oaks of Aberdeen— 
Recross’d the hilly seas, and saw 
The sable pines of Mackinaw, 
And lakes that lifted cold and white. 


I saw the sweet Miami, saw 
The swift Ohio bent and roll’d 
Between his woody walls of gold, 
The Wabash banks of gray pawpaw, 
The Mississippi’s ash; at morn 
Of autumn, when the oak is red, 
Saw slanting pyramids of corn, 
The level fields of spotted swine, 
The crooked lanes of lowing kine, 
And in the burning bushes saw 
The face of God, with bended head. 


But when I saw her face, I said, 
‘Earth has no fruits so fairly red 
As these that swing above my head; 
No purpled leaf, no poppied land, 
Like this that lies in reach of hand.”’ 


And, soft, unto myself I said: 
‘‘O soul, inured to rue and rime, 
To barren toil and bitter bread, 
To biting rime, to bitter rue, 


210 


Earth is not Nazareth; be good. 

O sacred Indian-summer time 

Of scarlet fruits, of fragrant wood, 
Of purpled clouds, of curling haze— 
O days of golden dreams, and days 
Of banish’d, vanish’d tawny men, 

Of martial songs of manly deeds— 
Be fair today, and bear me true.” 
We mounted, turn’dthe sudden steeds 
Toward the yellow hills and flew. 


My faith, but she rode fair, and she 

Had scarlet berries in her hair, 

And on her hands white starry stones. 

The satellites of many thrones 

Fall down before her gracious air 

In that full season. Fair to see 

Are pearly shells, red, virgin gold, 

And yellow fruits, and sun-down seas, 

And babes sun-brown; but all of 
these 

And all fair things of sea besides, 

Before the matchless, manifold 

Accomplishments of her who rides 

With autumn summer in her hair, 

And knows her steed and holds her 
fair 

And stately in her stormy seat, 

They lie like playthings at her feet. 


By heaven! she was more than fair, 

And more than good, and matchless 
wise, 

With all the lovelight in her eyes, 

And all the midnight in her hair. 


Through leafy avenues and lanes, 
And lo! we climb’d the yellow hills, 
With russet leaves about the brows 
That reach’d from Over-reaching 

trees. 


An Indian Summer 


‘Beneath the ancient arch of boughs 


With purpled briars to the knees | 
Of steeds that fretted foamy chanel 
We turn’d to look a time below 


That bent above us as a bow 

Of promise, bound in many hues. | 
I reach’d my hand. I could refy, 

All fruits but this, the touch of her. 

At such atime. But lo! she lean’d 

With lifted face and soul, and leant! 

As leans devoutest worshipper, 

Beyond the branches scarlet screen’! 

And look’d above me and beyond, | 

So fix’d and silent, still and fond, 

She seem’d the while she look’d t 

lose ! 

Her very soul in such intent. 

She look’d on other things, but I, 

I saw nor scarlet leaf nor sky; 

I look'd on her, and only her. 


Afar the city lay in smokes 

Of battle, and the martial strokes 

Of Progress thunder’d through th) 
land 1) 

And struck against the yellow trees, 

And roll’d in hollow echoes on 

Like sounding limits of the seas 

That smite the shelly shores a’ 
dawn. 


Beyond, below, on either hand 
There reach’d a lake in belt of pine, 
A very dream; a distant dawn 
Asleep in all the autumn shine, 
Some like one of another land 
That I once laid a hand upon, | 
And loved too well, and named as 

mine, 


Qn Indian Summer 


s sometimes touch’d with dimpl’d 
_ hand 

e drifting mane with dreamy air, 

» sometimes push’d aback her hair; 
t still she lean’d and look’d afar, 
silent as the statues stand,— 

¢ what? For falling leaf? For 
_ star 

at runs before the 

death? . 

‘e elements were still; a breath 
rr’d not, the level western sun 
ur’d in his arrows every one; 
ill’d all his wealth of purpled red 
i velvet poplar leaf below, 

y arching chestnut overhead 

all the hues of heaven’s bow. 


bride of 


he sat the upper hill, and high. 

spurr’d my black steed to her 
side; 

The bow of promise, lo!’’ I cried, 

nd lifted up my eyes to hers 

‘ith all the fervid love that stirs 

he blood of men beneath the sun, 

ad reach’d my hand, as one undone, 

i suppliance to hers above: 

The bow of promise! give me love! 

reach a hand, I rise or fall, 

enceforth from this: put forth a 
hand 

rom your high place and let me 
stand— 

tand soul and body, white and tall! 

vhy, I would live for you, would die 

‘omorrow, but to live today, 

tive me but love, and let me live 

‘o die before you. I can pray 

‘o only you, because I know, 

f you but give what I bestow, 

‘hat God has nothing left to give.” 


211 


Christ! still her stately head was 
raised, 
And still she silent sat and gazed 
Beyond the trees, beyond the town, 
To where the dimpled waters slept, 
Nor splendid eyes once bended down 
To eyes that lifted up and wept. 


She spake not, nor subdued her 
head 
To note a hand or heed a word; 
And then I question’d if she heard 
My life-tale on that leafy hill, 
Or any fervid word I said, 
And spoke with bold, vehement will. 


She moved, and from her bridle 

hand 

She slowly drew the dainty glove, 

Then gazed again upon the land. 

The dimpled hand, a snowy dove 

Alit, and moved along the mane 

Of glossy skeins; then, overbold, 

It fell across the mane, and lay 

Before my eyes a sweet bouquet 

Of cluster’d kisses, white as snow. 

I should have seized it reaching so, 

But something bade me back,—a 
ban; 

Around the third fair finger ran 

A shining, hateful hoop of gold. 


Ay, then I turn’d, I look’d away, 
I sudden felt forlorn and chill; 
I whistled, like, for want to say, 
And then I said, with bended head, 
‘‘ Another’s ship from other shores, 
With richer freight, with fairer stores, 
Shall come to her some day instead”’; 
Then turn’d about,—and all was 

still. 


22 


Yea, you had chafed at this, and 

cried, 

And laugh’d with bloodless lips, and 
said 

Some bitter things to sate your pride, 

And toss’d aloft a lordly head, 

And acted well some wilful lie, 

And, most like, cursed yourself—but 
Tuc te 

Well, you be crucified, and you 

Be broken up with lances through 

The soul, then you may turn to find 

Some ladder-rounds in keenest rods, 

Some solace in the bitter rind, 

Some favor with the gods irate— 

The everlasting anger’d gods— 

And ask not overmuch of fate. 


I was not born, was never bless’d, 
With cunning ways, nor wit, nor skill 
In woman’s ways, nor words of love, 
Nor fashion’d suppliance of will. 

A very clown, I think, had guess’d 
How out of place and plain I seem’d; 
I, I, the idol-worshiper, 

Who saw nor maple leaves nor sky 
But took some touch and hue of her. 


I am a pagan, heathen, lo! 
A savage man, of savage lands; 
Too quick to love, too slow to know 
The sign that tame love understands. 


Some heedless hoofs went sounding 
down 
The broken way. The woods were 
brown, 
And homely now; some idle talk 
Of folk and town; a broken walk; 


An Jndtan Summer 


} 
| 
} 
} 
| 


But sounding feet made song no mi: 
For me along that leafy shore. | 
The sun caught up his gather 
sheaves; 
A squirrel caught a nut and ran: 
A rabbit rustled in the leaves, 
A whirling bat, black-wing’d and tz 
Blew swift between us; sullen nig, 
Fell down upon us; mottled kine, | 
With lifted heads, went lowing dow 
The rocky ridge toward the town, | 
And all the woods grew dark as wit 


Yea, bless’d Ohio’s banks are | ) 

A sunny clime and good to touch, 

For tamer men of gentler mien, 

But as for me, another scene. 

A land below the Alps I know, 

Set well with grapes and girt wi 
much 

Of woodland beauty; I shall share» 

My rides by night below the light | 

Of Mauna Loa, ride below 

The steep and starry Hebron height 

Shall lift my hands in many lands, | 

See South Sea palm, see N ort 
fir, 

See white-winged swans, see rev 
bill’d doves; 

See many lands and many loves, 

But never more the face of her. - 


And what her name or now th 
place 
Of her who makes my Mecca's praye: | 
Concerns you not; not any trace i | 
Of entrance to my temple’s shrine _ 
Remains. The memory is mine, — 
And none shall pass the portals there 


From Sea to Hea 213 


Isee the gold and purple gleam 
‘autumn leaves, a reach of seas, 
silent rider like a dream 

loves by, a mist of mysteries, 

ad these are mine, and only these, 
et they be more in my esteem, 

han silver’d sails on corall’d seas. 
The present! take it, hold it thine, 
ut that one hour out from all 


The years that are, or yet shall 
fall, 

I pluck it out, I name it mine; 

That hour bound in sunny sheaves, 

With tassell’d shocks of golden shine, 

That hour wound in scarlet leaves, 

Is mine. I stretch a hand and 
swear 

An oath that breaks into a prayer; 

By heaven, it is wholly mine! 


FROM SEA TO SEA 


Lo! here sit we by the sun-down seas 

nd the White Sierras. The sweet 
sea-breeze 

s about us here; and a sky so fair 

+ bending above, so cloudless, blue, 

hat you gaze and you gaze and you 
dream, and you 

ee God and the portals of heaven there. 


Shake hands! kiss hands in haste to 

the sea, 

‘here the sun comes in, and mount 

| with me 

‘he matchless steed of the strong 
New World, 

s he champs and chafes with a 
strength untold,— 

nd away to the West where the 
waves are curl’d, 

\s they kiss white palms to the capes 


i 


of gold! 


A girth of brass and a breast of 
steel, 
\ breath of flame and a flaming mane, 
in iron hoof and a steel-clad heel, 


A Mexican bit and a massive chain 

Well tried and wrought in an iron 
rein; 

And away! away! with a shout and 
yell 

That had stricken a legion of old with 
fear, 

They had started the dead from their 
graves whilere, 

And startled the damn’d in hell as 
well. 


Stand up! stand out! where the 
wind comes in 
And the wealth of the sea pours over 


you, 

As its health floods up to the face like 
wine, 

And a breath blows up from the 
Delaware 

And the Susquehanna. We feel the 
might 

Of armies in us; the blood leaps 
through 

The frame with a fresh and a keen 
delight - 


214 


As the Alleghanies have kiss’d the 
hair, 

With a kiss blown far through the 
rush and din, 

By the chestnut burrs and through 
boughs of pine. 


O seas in a land! O lakes of mine! 

By the love I bear and the songs I 
bring 

Be glad with me! lift your waves and 
sing 

A song in the reeds that surround 
your isles!— 

A song of joy for this sun that smiles, 

For this land I love and this age and 
sign; 

For the peace that is and the perils 
pass’d; 

For the hope that is and the rest at 
last! 


O heart of the world’s heart! 

West! my West! 

Look up! look out! 
of kine, 

There are clover-fields that are red as 
wine; 

And a world of kine in the fields take 
rest, 

As they ruminate in the shade of trees 

That are white with blossoms or 
brown with bees. 


There are fields 


There are emerald seas of corn and 
cane; 
There are isles of oak on the harvest 
plain, 
Where brawn men bend to the bend- 
ing grain; 


From Sea to Sea 


| 

| 

There are temples of God and to) 
new born, 

And beautiful homes of beaut 
brides; 

And the hearts of oak and the hai 
of horn 

Have fashion’d all these and a we: 
besidesuih : ae | 


} 
A rush of rivers and a brush 
trees, 
A breath blown far from the Mexic 
seas, | 
And over the great heart-vein | 
earth! | 
. By the South-Sun-land of 1 
Cherokee, 
By the scalp-lock-lodge of the t 
Pawnee, 
And up La Platte. 
dearth 
Of the homes of men! 
delight 
Of space! of room! 
seas, 
Where the seas are not! 
salt-like breeze! 
What dust and taste of quick alka, | 
Then hills! green, brown, th 
ieee like night, 
All fierce and defiant against the sh 


What a wee 
What a " 
What a sense. | 


wi | 


At last! at last! O steed newiiel 
Born strong of the will of the stro. 
New World, | 
We shoot to the summit, with t 
shafts of morn, 
On the mount of Thunder, whe 
clouds are curl’d, 
Below in a splendor of the url 
seas. | 


i 


From Sea to Hea 


‘kiss of welcome on the warm west 

breeze 

lows up with a smell of the fragrant 
pine, 

nd a faint, sweet fragrance from 

the far-off seas 

omes in through the gates of the 
great South Pass, 

nd thrills the soul like a flow of wine. 

‘he hare leaps low in the storm-bent 
grass, 

‘he mountain ram from his cliff looks 
back, 

‘he brown deer hies to the tamarack; 

ind afar to the South with a sound of 

the main, 

toll buffalo herds to the limitless 
plain. . 


hago, on, o'er the summit; and 
onward again, 

\nd down like the sea-dove the billow 
enshrouds, 

\nd down like the swallow that dips 
to the sea, 

We dart and we dash and we quiver 
and we 

\re blowing to heaven white billows 
of clouds. 


| Thou ‘City of Saints!’’ O antique 
men, 

And men of the Desert as the men of 

| Mold! 

Stand up! be glad! 

are told, 

When Time has utter’d his truths 

- and when 

His hand has lifted the things to fame 

From the mass of things to be known 
no more, 


When the truths 


215 


A monument set in the desert sand, 

A pyramid rear’d on an inland shore, 

And their architects shall have place 
and name. 


The Humboldt desert and the 

alkaline land, 

And the seas of sage and of arid sand 

That stretch away till the strain’d 
eye carries 

The soul where the infinite spaces fill, 

Are far in the rear, and the fierce 
Sierras 

Are under our feet, and the hearts 
beat high 

And the blood comes quick; but the 
lips are still 

With awe and wonder, and all the will 

Is bow’d with a grandeur that frets 
the sky. 


A flash of lakes through the 
fragrant trees, 

A song of birds and a sound of bees 
Above in the boughs of the sugar- 
pine. . 

The pick-ax stroke in the placer mine, 

The boom of blasts in the gold-ribbed 
hills, 

The grizzly’s growl in the gorge below 

Are dying away, and the sound of rills 

From the far-off shimmering crest of 
snow, 

The laurel green and the ivied oak, 

A yellow stream and a cabin’s smoke, 

The brown bent hills and the shep- 
herd’s call, 

The hills of vine and of fruits, and all 

The sweets of Eden are here, and we 

Look out and afar to a limitless 
sea. 


216 


We have lived an age in a half 

moon-wane! 

We have seen a world! 
chased the sun 

From sea to sea; but the task is done. 

We here descend to the great white 
main— 

To the King of Seas, with its temples 
bare 

And a tropic breath on the brow and 
hair. 


We have 


THE SHIP IN 


A wild, wide land of mysteries, 
Of sea-salt lakes and dried up seas, 
And lonely wells and pools; a land 
That seems so like dead Palestine, 
Save that its wastes have no confine 
Till push'd against the levell’d skies. 
A land from out whose depths shall rise 
The new-time prophets. Yea, the land 
From out whose awful depths shall 
come, 
A lowly man, with dusty feet, 
A man fresh from his Maker's hand, 
A singer singing oversweet, 
A charmer charming very wise; 
And then all men shall not be dumb. 
Nay, not be dumb; for he shall say, 
“Take heed, for I prepare the way 
- For weary feet.’’ Lo! from this land 
Of Jordan streams and dead sea sand, 
The Christ shall come when next the 
race 
Of man shall look upon His face. 


I 


A man in middle Aridzone 
Stood by the desert’s edge alone, 


The Ship in the Desert 


We are hush’d with wonder, | 

stand apart, | 

We stand in silence; the heaving hei 

Fills full of heaven, and then 1 
knees 

Go down in worship on the gold 
sands. 

With faces seaward, and with old 
hands 

We gaze on the boundless, wi 

Balboa seas. 


THE DESERT | 


And long he look'd, and lean’d ai 
peer’d, | 
And twirl’d and twirl’d his twist 
beard, | 
Beneath a black and slouchy hat— 
Nay, nay, the tale is not of that. | 
| 
A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip, 
Stood on a mountain top; and he | 
Look’d long, and still, and eagerly. 
‘It looks so like some lonesome shi 
That sails this ghostly, lonely sea, | 
This dried-up desert sea,’’ said he, | 
“These tawny sands of buri | 
seas ’— | 
Avaunt! this tale is not of these! 


A chief from out the desert’s rim 
Rode swift as twilight swallows swit 
And O! his supple steed was fleet! | 
About his breast flapped panth 

skins, 
About his eager flying feet | 
Flapp’d beaded, braided moccasins’ 
He stopp’d, stock still, as still: 
stone, 


The Ship in the Desert 


fe lean’d, he look’d, there glisten’d 
__ bright, 

‘rom out the yellow, yielding sand, 
\ golden cup with jewell’d rim. 


He lean’d him low, he reach’d a 
ee hand, 

Je caught it up, he gallop’d on, 

Je turn’d his head, he saw a sight— 
jis panther-skins flew to the wind, 
Je rode into the rim of night; 

The dark, the desert lay behind; 

[he tawny Ishmaelite was gone. 


He reach’d the town, and there 
held up 
\bove his head the jewell’d cup. 
Je put two fingers to his lip, 
He whisper’d wild, he stood a-tip, 
And lean’d the while with lifted hand, 


And said, ‘‘A ship lies yonder dead,’”” 


And said, ‘Such things lie sown in 
sand 

In yon far desert dead and brown, 

Beyond where wave-wash’d walls 

' look down, 

As thick as stars set overhead.” 


“Tis from that desert ship,’ they 

said, 

“That sails with neither sail nor 
breeze 

The lonely bed of dried-up seas,— 

A galleon that sank below 

White seas ere Red men drew the 
bow.” 


By Arizona’s sea of sand 
Some bearded miners, gray and old, 
And resolute in search of gold, 
Sat down to tap the savage land. 


217 


A miner stood beside the mine, 

He pull’d his beard, then looked away 
Across the level sea of sand, 

Beneath his broad and hairy hand, 
A hand as hard as knots of pine. 
“It looks so like a sea,’’ said he. 

He pull’d his beard, and he did say, 
“Tt looks just like a dried-up sea.” 
Again he pull’d that beard of his, 
But said no other thing than this. 


A stalwart miner dealt a stroke, 
And struck a buried beam of oak. 
The miner twisted, twirl’d his beard, 
Lean’d on his pick-ax as he spoke: 
‘““’Tis that same long-lost ship,’’ he 

said, 
“Some laden ship of Solomon 
That sail’d these lonesome seas upon 
In search of Ophir’s mine, ah me! 
That sail’d this dried-up desert sea.”’ 


II 


Now this the tale. Along the wide 
Missouri’s stream some silent braves, 
That stole along the farther side 
Through sweeping wood that swept 
the waves 

Like long arms reach’d across the 
tide, 

Kept watch and every foe defied. 


A low, black boat that hugg’d the 


shores, 

An ugly boat, an ugly crew, 

Thick-lipp’d and  woolly-headed 
slaves, 

That bow’d, and bent the white-ash 
oars, 


That cleft the murky waters through, 


218 


Slow climb’d the swift Missouri’s 
waves. 


A grand old Neptune in the prow, 
Gray-hair’d, and white with touch of 
time, 
Yet strong as in his middle prime, 
Stood up, turn’d suddenly, look’d 
back 
Along his low boat’s wrinkled track, 
Then drew his mantle tight, and now 
He sat all silently. Beside 
The grim old sea-king sat his bride, 
A sun land blossom, rudely torn 
From tropic forests to be worn 
Above as stern a breast as e’er 
Stood king at sea, or anywhere. 


Another boat with other crew 
Came swift and cautious in her track, 
And now shot shoreward, now shot 

back, 
And now sat rocking fro and to, 
But never once lost sight of her. 
Tall, sunburnt, southern men were 
these 
From isles of blue Caribbean seas, 
And one, that woman’s worshiper, 
Who look’d on her, and loved but her. 


And one, that one, was wild as seas 
That wash the far, dark Oregon. 
And one, that one, had eyes to teach 
The art of love, and tongue to preach 
Life’s hard and sober homilies, 
While he stood leaning, urging on. 


III 


Pursuer and pursued. And who 
Are these that make the sable crew; 


The HDhip in the Desert : 


These mighty Titans, black and nin 
Who dare this Red man’s solitude) 


And who is he that leads them he; 
And breaks the hush of wave a 
wood? 
Comes he for evil or for good? 
Brave Jesuit or bold buccaneer? 


Nay, these be idle themes. | 
pass. 
These be but men. We may forge 
The wild sea-king, the tawny bravi 
The frowning wold, the woody sho; 
The tall-built, sunburnt man of Ma; 
But what and who was she, the fai, 
The fairest face that ever yet i 
Look’d in a wave as in a glass; 
That look’d, as look the still, f 
stars, | 
So woman-like, into the wave | 
To contemplate their beauty therei 
1 
I only saw her, heard the sound | 
Of murky waters gurgling round 
In counter-currents from the shore, 
But heard the long, strong stroke » 
oar 
Against the water gray and vast; 
I only saw her as she pass’d— 
A great, sad beauty, in whose eyes | 
Lay all the peace of Paradise. 


O you had loved her sitting there! 
Half hidden in her loosen’d hair; | 
Yea, loved her for her large dark eye 
Her push’d out mouth, her mute st | 

prise— 
Her mouth! ’twas Egypt’s mouth ‘ 
old, 
Push’d out and pouting full and bol 


The Ship in the Desert 


Vith simple beauty where she sat. 
Vhy, you had said, on seeing her, 
‘his creature comes from out the dim, 
‘ar centuries, beyond the rim 

)f time’s remotest reach or stir; 

ind he who wrought Semiramis 

ind shaped the Sibyls, seeing this, 
Jad kneeled and made a shrine 
lMeethereat, | 

ind all his life had worshipp’d her. 


IV 


_ The black men bow’d, the long oars 

} } bent, 

They struck as if for sweet life’s sake, 

\nd one look’d back, but no man 
spake, 

And all wills bent to one intent. 

In, through the golden fringe of day 

[nto the deep, dark night, away 

And up the wave ’mid walls of wood 

They cleft, they climb’d, they bow’d, 
they bent, 

But one stood tall, and restless stood, 

And one sat still all night, all day, 

And gazed in helpless wonderment. 


Her hair pour’d down like darkling 
wine, 

The black men lean’d a sullen line, 
The bent oars kept a steady song, 
And all the beams of bright sunshine 
That touch’d the waters wild and 
strong, 
Fell drifting down and out of sight 
Like fallen leaves, and it was night. 


| And night and day, and many days 
They climb’d the sullen, dark gray 
| tide. 


" Not over-gentle. 


219 


And she sat silent at his side, 

And he sat turning many ways; 

Sat watching for his wily foe. 

At last he baffled him. And yet 

His brow gloom’d dark, his lips were 
set; 

He lean’d, he peer’d through boughs, 
as though 

From heart of forests deep and dim 

Grim shapes might come confronting 
him. 


A stern, uncommon man was he, 
Broad-shoulder’d, as of Gothic form, 
Strong-built, and hoary like a sea; 

A high sea broken up by storm. 

His face was brown and over-wrought 

By seams and shadows born of 
thought, 

And his eyes, 

Bold, restless, resolute and deep, 

Too deep to flow like shallow fount 


Of common men where waters 
mount ;— 

Fierce, lumined eyes, where flames 
might rise 
Instead of flood, and flash and 

sweep— 


Strange eyes, that look’d unsatisfied 
With all things fair or otherwise; 
As if his inmost soul had cried 

All time for something yet unseen, 
Some long-desired thing denied. 


V 


Below the overhanging boughs 
The oars lay idle at the last; 
Yet long he look’d for hostile prows 
From out the wood and down the 
stream. 


220 


They came not, and he came to dream 
Pursuit abandon’d, danger past. 


He fell’d the oak, he built a home 
Of new-hewn wood with busy hand, 
And said, ‘‘My wanderings are told,”’ 
And said, ‘‘ No more by sea, by land, 
Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam, 
For I am worn, and I grow old.” 


And there, beside that surging tide, 
Where gray waves meet, and wheel, 
and strike, 
The man sat down as satisfied 
To sit and rest unto the end; 
As if the strong man here had found 
A sort of brother in this sea,— 
This surging, sounding majesty, 
Of troubled water, so profound, 
So sullen, strong, and lion-like, 
So lawless in its every round. 


Hast seen Missouri cleave the wood 
In sounding whirlpools to the sea? 
What soul hath known such majesty? 
What man stood by and understood? 


VI 


Now long the long oars idle lay. 
The cabin’s smoke came forth and 
curl’d 
Right lazily from river brake, 
And Time went by the other way. 
And who was she, the strong man’s 
pride, 
This one fair woman of his world? 
A captive? Bride, or not a bride? 
Her eyes, men say, grew sad and dim 
With watching from the river’s rim, 
As waiting for some face denied. 


Che Hhip in the Desert 


Yea, who was she? none ever kne. 
The great, strong river swept arout 
The cabin nestled in its bend, 

But kept its secrets. Wild birds fle 
In bevies by. The black men four. 
Diversion in the chase; and wide 
Old Morgan ranged the wood, m 
friend 
Nor foeman ever sought his side, 
Or shared his forests deep and dim, 
Or cross’d his path or question’d hin} 


He stood as one who found an 


named 

The middle world. What visior 
flamed 

Athwart the west! What me | 
cies 


Were his, the gray old man, that da 
Who stood alone and look’d away,-' 
Awest from out the waving trees, 
Against the utter sundown seas. | 


Alone ofttime beside the stream _ 
He stood and gazed as in a dream,-| 
As if he knew a life unknown | 
To those who knew him thus alone. | 
His eyes were gray and overborne | 
By shaggy brows, his strength We 

shorn, 
Yet still he ever gazed awest, 
As one that would not, could not res’ 


And had he fled with bloody hand) 
Or had he loved some Helen fair, | 
And battling lost both land an 

town? 
Say, did he see his walls go down, | 
Then choose from all his treasure 
there | 
This one, and seek some other | 


The Ship in the Desert 


VII 
The squirrels chatter’d in the 
leaves, 
The turkeys call’d from pawpaw 
wood, 


The deer with lifted nostrils stood, 

Mid climbing blossoms sweet with 
bee, 

Neath snow-white rose of Cherokee. 


Then frosts hung ices on the eaves, 

[Then cushion snows possess’d the 
ground, 

And so the seasons kept their round; 

Yet still old Morgan went and came 

Prom cabin door through forest dim, 

Through wold of snows, through 

__wood of flame, 

Through golden Indian-summer days, 

Hung red with soft September haze, 

And no man cross’d or questioned 
him. 


_ Nay, there was that in his stern air 
That held e’en these rude men aloof; 
None came to share the broad-built 
| Seeroof 

That rose so fortress-like beside 

The angry, rushing, sullen tide, 

And only black men gather’d there, 
The old man’s slaves in dull content, 
Black, silent, and obedient. 


_ Then men push’d westward through 


/ his wood, 
His wild beasts fled, and now he stood 
Confronting men. He had endear’d 


No man, but still he went and came 
Apart, and shook his beard and strode 
His ways alone, and bore his load, 


221 


If load it were, apart, alone. 

Then men grew busy with a name 

That no man loved, that many fear’d, 

And rude men stoop’d, and cast a 
stone, 

As at some statue overthrown. 


Some said, a stolen bride was she, 
And that her lover from the sea 
Lay waiting for his chosen wife, 
And that a day of reckoning 
Lay waiting for this grizzled king. 


Some said that looking from her 

place 

A love would sometimes light her 
face, 

As if sweet recollections stirr’d 

Like far, sweet songs that come to us, 

So soft, so sweet, they are not heard, 

So far, so faint, they fill the air, 

A fragrance falling anywhere. 


So, wasting all her summer years 
That utter’d only through her tears, 
The seasons went, and still she stood 
Forever watching down the wood. 


Yet in her heart there held a strife 
With all this wasting of sweet life, 
That none who have not lived—and 

died— 
Held up the two hands crucified 
Between two ways—can understand. 


Men went and came, and still she 
stood 
In silence watching down the wood— 
Adown the wood beyond the land, 
Her hollow face upon her hand, 


222 


Her black, abundant hair all down 
About her loose, ungather’d gown. 


And what her thought? her life 
unsaid? 
Was it of love? of hate? of him, 
The tall, dark Southerner? 
head 
Bow’d down. 
Upon her eyes. 
slept. 
She waken’d then, and waking wept. 


Her 


The day fell dim 


She bowed, she 


VIII 


The black-eyed bushy squirrels ran 

Like shadows scattered through the 
boughs; 

The gallant robin chirp’d his vows, 

The far-off pheasant thrumm’d his 
fan, 

A thousand blackbirds kept on wing 

In walnut-top, and it was Spring. 


Old Morgan sat his cabin door, 
And one sat watching as of yore, 
But why turn’d Morgan’s face as 

white 
As his white beard? A bird aflight, 
A squirrel peering through the trees, 
Saw some one silent steal away 
Like darkness from the face of day, 
Saw two black eyes look back, and 
these 
Saw her hand beckon through the 
trees. 


Ay! they have come, the sun- 
brown’d men, 
To beard old Morgan in his den. 
It matters little who they are, 


The Ship in the Desert 


These silent men from isles afar; 
And truly no one cares or knows 
What be their merit or demand; 
It is enough for this rude land— 
At least, it is enough for those, | 
The loud of tongue and rude ¢ 
hand— | 
To know that they are Morgan’s foes 
Proud Morgan! More than tongu 
can tell 
He loved that woman watching tha 
That stood in her dark storm of hai 
That stood and dream’d as in a spel) 
And look’d so fix’d and far away; _ 
And who that loveth woman well, 
Is wholly bad? be whom he may. 


IX / 


Ay! we have seen these Souther 
men, ; | 
These sun-browned men from islan’ 
shore, | 
In this same land, and long before. — 
They do not seem so lithe as then, | 
They do not look so tall, and they _ 
Seem not so many as of old. | 
But that same resolute and bold 
Expression of unbridled will, 
That even Time must half obey, 
Is with them and is of them still. 


| 
: 


They do not counsel the decree 
Of court or council, where they deer 
Their breath, nor law nor order knew, 
Save but the strong hand of th) 

strong; | 
Where each stood up, avenged hi 
wrong, 
Or sought his death all silently. 


The Hhip in the Desert 


‘hey watch along the wave and 

wood, 

‘hey heed, but haste not. 
estate, 

Vhate’er it be, can bide and wait, 

Se it open ill or hidden good. 

Yo law for them! For they have 
stood 

Vith steel, and writ their rights in 
blood; 

(nd now, whatever ’t is they seek, 

Vhatever be their dark demand, 

Vhy, they will make it, hand to hand, 

‘ake time and patience: Greek to 
Greek. 


Their 


x 


Like blown and snowy wintry pine, 
Vid Morgan stoop’d his head and 
/  pass’d 
Vithin his cabin door. He cast 
\ great arm out to men, made sign, 
‘hen turn’d to Sybal; stood beside 
\ time, then turn’d and strode the 

- floor, 
itopp’d short, breathed sharp, threw 
__ wide the door, 

‘hen gazed beyond the murky tide, 
*ast where the forky peaks divide. 


He took his beard in his right hand, 
“hen slowly shook his grizzled head 
ind trembled, but no word he said. 
dis thought was something more than 
| pain; 

Jpon the seas, upon the land 
te-knew he should not rest again. 


He turn’d to her; and then once 
more 


223 


Quick turn’d, and through the oaken 
door 

He sudden pointed to the west. 

His eye resumed its old command, 

The conversation of his hand 

It was enough; she knew the rest. 


He turn’d, he _ stoop’d, and 

smooth’d her hair, 

As if to smooth away the care 

From his great heart, with his left 
hand. 

His right hand hitch’d the pistol 
‘round 

That dangled at his belt. The sound 

Of steel to him was melody 

More sweet than any song of sea. 

He touch’d his pistol, push’d his lips, 

Then tapp’d it with his finger tips, 

And toy’d with it as harper’s hand 

Seeks out the chords when he is sad 

And purposeless. At last he had 

Resolved. In haste he touch’d her 
hair, 

Made sign she should arise—prepare 

For some long journey, then again 

He look’d awest toward the plain; 

Against the land of boundless space, 

The land of silences, the land 

Of shoreless deserts sown with sand, 

Where Desolation’s dwelling is; 

The land where, wondering, you say, 

What dried-up shoreless sea is this? 

Where, wandering, from day to day 

You say, To-morrow sure we come 

To rest in some cool resting place, 

And yet you journey on through 
space 

While seasons pass, and are struck 
dumb 

With marvel at the distances. 


224 


Yea, he would go. Go utterly 
Away, and from all living kind; 
Pierce through the distances, and find 
New lands. He had outlived his race. 
He stood like some eternal tree 
That tops remote Yosemite, 

And cannot fall. He turn’d his face 
Again and contemplated space. 


And then he raised his hand to vex 

His beard, stood still, and there fell 
down 

Great drops from some unfrequent 
spring, 

And streak’d his channell’d cheeks 
sunbrown, 

And ran uncheck’d, as one who recks 

Nor joy, nor tears, nor anything. 


And then, his broad breast heaving 

deep, 

Like some dark sea in troubled sleep, 

Blown round with groaning ships and 
wrecks, 

He sudden roused himself, and stood 

With all the strength of his stern 
mood, 

Then call’d his men, and bade them 
go 

And bring black steeds with banner’d 
necks, 

And strong, like burly buffalo. 


XI 


The bronzen, stolid, still, black men 
Their black-maned horses silent drew 
Through solemn wood. One mid- 

night when 
The curl’d moon tipp’d her horn, and 
threw 


The Hhip in the Desert 


A black oak’s shadow slant across 
A low mound hid in leaves and mo 
Old Morgan cautious came and dr 
From out the ground, as from a gray 
Great bags, all copper-bound and 0] 
And fill’d, men say, with pirates’ go) 
And then they, silent as a dream, — 
In long black shadow cross’d t 

stream. | 


XII 


And all was life at morn, but one 
The tall old sea-king, grim and gre 
Look’d back to where his cabin lay 
And seem’d to hesitate. He rose 
At last, as from his dream’s repose 
From rest that cotnterfeited rest, — 
And set his blown beard to the we: 
And rode against the setting sun, 
Far up the levels vast and dun. 


His steeds were steady, strong a’ 
fleet, 
The best in all the wide west land, 
Their manes were in the air, their ft 
Seem’d scarce to touch the flyi 
sand. : 


| 

They rode like men gone mad, th 
fled | 

All day and many days they ran, 
And in the rear a gray old man 
Kept watch, and ever turn’d his he 
Half eager and half angry, back 
Along their dusty desert track. 


} 


And she look’d back, but no m 


spoke, | 


They rode, they swallowed up t 
plain; | 


| 
| 


‘he sun sank low, he look’d again, 
Jith lifted hand and shaded eyes. 
‘hen far, afar, he saw uprise, 

sif from giant’s stride or stroke, 
yan dust, like puffs of battle-smoke. 


‘He turn’d, his left hand clutched 
| the rein, 
fe struck hard west his high right 
hand, 
lis limbs were like the limbs of oak; 
ill knew too well the man’s com- 
/ mand. 
)m bn they spurred, they plunged 
again, 
ind one look’d back, but no man 
spoke. 


_ They climb’d the rock-built breasts 
of earth, 

[he Titan-fronted, blowy steeps 

That cradled Time. Where freedom 
keeps 

Jer flag of bright, blown stars un- 

\aeaturl’d, 

They climbed and climbed. They 
saw the birth 

Jf sudden dawn upon the world; 

\gain they gazed; they saw the face 

Of God, and named it boundless 
space. 


And they descended and did roam 
Through levell’d distances set round 
By room, They saw the Silences 
Move by and beckon; saw the forms, 
The very beards, of burly storms, 
‘And heard them talk like sounding 

seas. 
On unnamed heights, bleak-blown 


and brown, 
15 


The Ship in the Desert 


225 


And torn-like battlements of Mars, 
They saw the darknesses come down, 
Like curtains loosen’d from the dome 
Of God’s cathedral, built of stars. 


They pitch’d the tent where rivers 
run 

All foaming to the west, and rush 
As if to drown the falling sun. 
They saw the snowy mountains roll’d, 
And heaved along the nameless lands 
Like mighty billows; saw the gold 
Of awful sunsets; felt the hush 
Of heaven when the day sat down, 
And drew about his mantle brown, 
And hid his face in dusky hands. 


The long and lonesome nights! the 
tent 

That nestled soft in sweep of grass, 

The hills against the firmament 

Where scarce the moving moon 
could pass; 

The cautious camp, the smother’d 

See, 
The silent sentinel at night! 


The wild beasts howling from the 
hill; 
The savage prowling swift and still, 
And bended as a bow is bent. 
The arrow sent; the arrow spent 
And buried in its bloody place; 
The dead man lying on his face! 


The clouds of dust, their cloud by 
day ; 
Their pillar of unfailing fire 
The far North Star. And high, and 
higher, 


226 


They climb’d so high it seemed 
eftsoon 
That they must face the falling moon, 
That like some flame-lit ruin lay 
High built before their weary way. 


They learn’d to read the sign of 
storms, 
The moon’s wide circles, sunset bars, 


And storm-provoking blood and 
flame; 

And, like the Chaldean shepherds, 
came 


At night to name the moving stars. 
In heaven’s face they pictured forms 
Of beasts, of fishes of the sea. 

They watch’d the Great Bear wearily 
Rise up and drag his clinking chain 
Of stars around the starry main. 


XITI 


And why did these worn, sun-burnt 

men 

Let Morgan gain the plain, and then 

Pursue him ever where he fled? 

Some say their leader sought but her; 

Unlike each swarthy follower. 

Some say they sought his gold alone, 

And fear’d to make their quarrel 
known 

Lest it should keep its secret bed; 

Some say they thought to best prevail 

And conquer with united hands 

Alone upon the lonesome sands; — 

Some say they had as much to dread; 

Some say—but I must tell my tale. 


And still old Morgan sought the 
west; 
The sea, the utmost sea, and rest. 


The Hhip in the Besert 
} 


He climb’d, descended, climb’d again, 
Until pursuit seemed all in vain; 
Until they left him all alone, 

As unpursued and as unknown, 

As some lost ship upon the main. 


O there was grandeur in his air, 
An old-time splendor in his eye, | 
When he had climb’d at last the high. 
And rock-built bastions of the plain, 
Thrown back his beard and blown 

white hair, 
And halting turn’d to look again. 


Dismounting in his lofty place, 
He look’d far down the fading plain — 
For his pursuers, but in vain. | 
Yea, he was glad. Across his face _ 
A careless smile was seen to play, . 
The first for many a stormy day. — 


He turn’d to Sybal, dark, yet fair 

As some sad twilight; touched her 
hair, 

Stoop’d low, and kiss’d her gently 
there, 

Then silent held her to his breast; _ | 

Then waved command to his black | 
men, | 

Look’d east, then mounted slow and 
then 

Led leisurely against the west. 


And why should he who dared to 
die, 
Who more than once with hissing 
breath 
Had set his teeth and pray’d for | 
death? 
Why fled these men, or wherefore | 
Before them now? why not defy? 


: 


His midnight men were strong and 
meuriie, 

id not unused to strife, and knew 
\e masonry of steel right well, 

id all such signs that lead to hell. 


[t might have been his youth had 
wrought 

me wrongs his years would now 
_ repair, 

iat made him fly and still forbear; 
might have been he only sought 

i lead them to some fatal snare, 

id let them die by piecemeal there. 


L only know it was not fear 

“any man or any thing 

iat death in any shape might bring. 

‘might have been some lofty sense 

his own truth and innocence, 

nd virtues lofty as severe— 

vy, nay! what room for reasons 
here? 


And now they pierced a fringe of 
trees 

sat bound a mountain’s brow like 

_ bay. 

reet through the fragrant boughs a 

ime preeze 

lew salt-flood freshness. Far away, 

liom mountain brow to desert base 

ly chaos, space; unbounded space. 


The black men cried, ‘‘The sea!”’ 

| They bow’d 

lack, woolly heads in hard black 

hands. 

sey wept for joy. They laugh’d, 
they broke 

ie silence of an age, and spoke 


The Ship in the DBesert 


207 


Of rest at last; and, grouped in bands, 
They threw their long black arms 


about 

Each other’s necks, and laugh’d 
aloud, 

Then wept again with laugh and 
shout. 


Yet Morgan spake no word, but led 
His band with oft-averted head 
Right through the cooling trees, till 

he 
Stood out upon the lofty brow 
And mighty mountain wall. 
now 
The men who shouted, ‘‘ Lo, the sea!”’ 
Rode in the sun; sad, silently, 
Rode in the sun, and look’d below. 


And 


They look’d but once, then look’d 

away, 

Then look’d each other in the face. 

They could not lift their brows, nor 
say, 

But held their heads, nor spake, for 
lo! 

Nor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath 

Of sea, but only sand and death, 

The dread mirage, the fiend of space! 


XIV 


Old Morgan eyed his men, look’d 

back 

Against the groves of tamarack, 

Then tapp’d his stirrup foot, and 
stray’d 

His broad left hand along the mane 

Of his strong steed, and careless 
play’d 

His fingers through the sillen skein. 


228 


And then he spurr’d him to her 

side, 

And reach’d his hand and leaning 
wide, 

He smiling push’d her falling hair 

Back from her brow, and kiss’d her 
there. 

Yea, touch’d her softly, as if she 

Had been some priceless, tender 
flower; 

Yet touched her as one taking leave 

Of his one love in lofty tower 

Before descending to the sea 

Of battle on his battle eve. 


A distant shout! 
alarms! 
The black men start, turn suddenly, 
Stand in the stirrup, clutch their 
arms, 
And bare bright arms all instantly. 
But he, he slowly turns, and he 
Looks all his fuli soul in her face. 
He does not shout, he does not say, 
But sits serenely in his place 
A time, then slowly turns, looks back 
Between the trim-boughed tamarack, 
And up the winding mountain way, 
To where the long, strong grasses lay, 
And there they came, hot on his 
track! 


quick oaths! 


He raised his glass in his two hands, 
Then in his left hand let it fall, 
Then seem’d to count his fingers o’er, 
Then reached his glass, waved his 

commands, 
Then tapped his stirrup as before, 
Stood in the stirrup stern and tall, 
Then ran a hand along the mane 
Half-nervous like, and that was all. 


4 


The Ship in the Desert 


And then he turn’d and smile 
half sad, 
Half desperate) then hitch’d his ota 
Then all his stormy presence had, 
As if he kept once more his keel, | 
On pirate seas where breakers reel. | 
At last he tossed his iron hand : 
Above the deep, steep desert space, : 
Above the burning seas of sand, 
And look’d his black men in the fac; 
They spake not, nor look’d bac 
again, 
They struck the heel, they clue 
the rein, 
And down the darkling plunging stee 
They dropp’d into the dried-up dee 


Below! It seem’d a league | 
The black men rode, and she rod. 
well, 
Against the gleaming, sheening haze| 
That shone like some vast | 
ablaze— 
That seem’d to gleam, to glint, t 
glow, 
As if it mark’d the shores of hell. | 


i 


| 


Then Morgan reined alone, look, 
back 
From off the high wall where he  } | 
And watch’d his fierce approachin; 
foe. | 
He saw him creep along his track, | 
Saw him descending from the wood, | 
And smiled to see how worn and slow, 


And Morgan heard his oath ant 
shout, 

And Morgan turned his head one. 
more, 


: The Ship in the Besert 


id wheel’d his stout steed short 
— about, 

‘en seem’d to count their numbers 
a) er. 

'd then his right hand touch’d his 
steel, 

'd then he tapp’d his iron heel, 

id seemed to fight with thought. 
At last 

if the final die was cast, 

d cast as carelessly as one 

juld toss a white coin in the sun, 


: touch’d his rein once more, and ! 


then 
s right hand laid with idle heed 
ong the toss’d mane of his steed. 


Pursuer and pursued! who knows 
1e why he left the breezy pine, 

1e fragrant tamarack and vine, 

bd rose and precious yellow rose! 
uy Vasques held the vantage ground 
yove him by the wooded steep, 

id right nor left no passage lay, 

ad there was left him but that 
away ,— 

ie way through blood, or to the 
_ deep 

nd lonesome deserts far profound, 
nat knew not sight of man, nor 
sound. 


Hot Vasques reined upon the rim, 

igh, bold, and fierce with crag and 
spire. 

‘¢ saw a far gray eagle swim, 

saw a black hawk wheel, retire, 

ad shun that desert’s burning 

_ breath 

53 shunning something more than 
death. 


220 


Ah, then he paused, turn’d, shook 

his head. 

‘“ And shall we turn aside,’’ he said, 

‘“‘Or dare this Death?’’ The men 
stood still 

As leaning on his sterner will. 

And then he stopp’d and turn’dagain, 

And held his broad hand to his brow, 

And look’d intent and eagerly. 

The far white levels of the plain 

Flash’d back like billows. Even now 

He thought he saw rise up ’mid sea, 

’Mid space, ’mid wastes, ’mid noth- 
ingness 

A ship becalm’d as in distress. 


The dim sign pass’d as suddenly, 
And then his eager eyes grew dazed,— 
He brought his two hands to his face. 
Again he raised his head, and gazed 
With flashing eyes and visage fierce 
Far out, and resolute to pierce 
The far, far, faint receding reach 
Of space and touch its farther beach. 
He saw but space, unbounded space; 
Eternal space and nothingness. 


Then all wax’d anger’d as they 

gazed 

Far out upon the shoreless land, 

And clench’d their doubled hands and 
raised 

Their long bare arms, but utter’d not. 

At last one rode from out the band, 

And raised his arm, push’d back his 


sleeve, 

Push’d bare his arm, rode up and 
down, 

With hat push’d back. Then flush’d 
and hot 


He shot sharp oaths like cannon shot. 


230 


Then Vasques was resolved; his 
form 
Seem’d like a pine blown rampt with 
storm. 
He clutch’d his rein, drove spur, and 
then 
Turn’d sharp and savage to his men, 
And then led boldly down the way 
To night that knows not night or day. 


XV 


How broken plunged the steep 
descent! 
How barren! Desolate, and rent 
By earthquake’s shock, the land lay 
dead, 
With dust and ashes on its head. 


’Twas as some old world over- 

thrown 

Where Theseus fought and Sappho 
dream’d 

In zons ere they touch’d this land, 

And found their proud souls foot and 
hand 

Bound to the flesh and stung with 


pain. 
An ugly skeleton it seem’d 
Of its old self. The fiery rain 


Of red volcanoes here had sown 

The desolation of the plain. 

Ay, vanquish’d quite and overthrown, 

And torn with thunder-stroke, and 
strown 

With cinders, lo! the dead earth lay 

As waiting for the judgment day. 

Why, tamer men had turn’d and 
said, 

On seeing this, with start and dread, 


The Ship in the Desert 


And whisper’d each with gather 
breath, 
‘‘We come on the abode of death.” 


| 
! 


They wound below a savage bluff : 
That lifted, from its sea-mark’d base 
Great walls with characters cut roug]| 
And deep by some long-perish’d race 
And great, strange beasts unnamed 

unknown, 
Stood hewn and limn’d upon th 
stone. : 

A mournful land as land can be_ | 
Beneath their feet in ashes lay, 
Beside that dread and dried-up sea; | 
A city older than that gray 
And sand sown tower builded when | 
Confusion cursed the tongues of men, 

| 
Beneath, before, a city lay” 
That in her majesty had shamed 
The wolf-nursed conqueror of old; 
Below, before, and far away, 
There reach’d the white arm of a bay. 
A broad bay shrunk to sand an( 
stone, 

Where ships had rode and brea 
roll’d 

When Babylon was yet unnamed, 

And Nimrod’s hunting-fields un 
known. 


! 


Where sceptered kings had sat ai 
feast, 
Some serpents slid from out the gras: 
That grew in tufts by shatter’d stone 
Then hid beneath some broken mass 
That time had eaten as a bone 
Is eaten by some savage beast. 


——o 


A dull-eyed rattlesnake that lay 

Il loathsome, yellow-skinn’d, and 
) slept 

oil’d tight as pine-knot, in the sun, 
ith flat head through the center 


run, 

sruck blindly back, then rattling 

crept 

lat-bellied down the dusty 
Bay feeds ee 


Owas all the dead land had to say. 


Two pink-eyed hawks, wide-wing’d 


and gray, 
sream'’d savagely, and, circling 
_ high, 


nd screaming still in mad dismay, 
rew dim and died against the 
Mmesky ... 

‘was all the heavens had to say. 


Some low-built junipers at last, 

he last that o’er the desert look’d, 

There dumb owls sat with bent bills 
hook’d 

eneath their wings awaiting night, 

‘ose up, then faded from the sight. 


“What dim ghosts hover on this rim: 
That stately-manner’d shadows 
swim 

long these gleaming wastes of sands 
nd shoreless limits of dead lands? 
Dread Azteckee! Dead Azteckee! 
Thite place of ghosts, give up thy 
dead; 

ive back to Time thy buried hosts! 
he new world’s tawny Ishmaelite, 
he roving tent-born Shoshonee, 


The Ship in the Desert 


227 


Hath shunned thy shores of death, at 
night 

Because thou art so white, so dread, 

Because thou art so ghostly white, 

And named thy shores ‘“‘the place of 
ghosts.” 


Thy white, uncertain sands are 

white 

With bones of thy unburied dead, 

That will not perish from the sight. 

They drown, but perish not—ah me! 

What dread unsightly sights are 
spread 

Along this lonesome, dried-up sea? 


Old, hoar, and dried-up sea! so old 
So strown with wealth, so sown with 
gold! 
Yea, thou art old and hoary white 
With time, and ruin of all things; 
And on thy lonesome borders Night 
Sits brooding as with wounded wings. 


The winds that toss’d thy waves 
and blew 
Across thy breast the blowing sail, 
And cheer’d the hearts of cheering 
crew 
From farther seas, no more prevail. 
Thy white-wall’d cities all lie prone, 
With but a pyramid, a stone, 
Set head and foot in sands to tell 
The thirsting stranger where they 
fell. 


The patient ox that bended low 
His neck, and drew slow up and down 
Thy thousand freights through rock- 

built town 
Is now the free-born buffalo. 


232 


No longer of the timid fold, 

The mountain ram leaps free and 
bold 

His high-built summit, and looks 
down 

From battlements of buried town. 


Thine ancient steeds know not the 

rein; 

They lord the land; they come, they 
go 

At will; they laugh at man; they blow 

A cloud of black steeds o’er the plain. 

The winds, the waves, have drawn 
away— 

The very wild man dreads to stay. 


XVI 


Away! upon the sandy seas 
The gleaming, burning, boundless 
plain; 
How solemn-like, how still, as when 
That mighty minded Genoese 
Drew three slim ships and led his men 
From land they Saar he not meet 
again. 


The black men rode in front by 
two, 
The fair one follow’d close, and kept 
Her face held down as if she wept; 
But Morgan kept the rear, and threw 
His flowing, swaying beard still back 
In watch along their lonesome track. 


The weary Day fell down to rest, 
A star upon his mantled breast, 
Ere scarce the sun fell out of space, 
And Venus glimmer’d in his place. 
Yea, all the stars shone just as fair, 


The Ship in the Desert 


| 


And constellations kept their round, 
And look’d from out the great pro 
found, 
And march’d, and countermarch’d, 
and shone | 
Upon that desolation there— : 
Why, just the same as if proud man 
Strode up and down array’d in gold | 
And purple as in days of old, | 
And reckon’d all of his own plan, 
Or made at least for man alone. | 
Yet on push’d Morgan silently, 
And straight as strong ship on a sea 
And ever as he rode there lay— | 
To right, to left, and in his way, 
Strange objects looming in the dark, 
Some like tall mast, or ark, or bark. | 
| 
And things half-hidden in the san¢ 
Lay down before them where they 
pass’d— 
A broken beam, half-buried mast, 
A spar or bar, such as might be : 
Blown crosswise, tumbled on the 
strand 
Of some sail-crowded, stormy sea. | 


All. night by moon, by morning 

star, j 

The still, black men still kept theit| 
way; 

All night till morn, till burning dag | 

Hard Vasques follow’d fast and far. | 


The sun is high, the sands are hot 
To touch, and all the tawny plain 
Sinks white and open as they tread | 
And trudge, with half-averted head, 
As if to swallow them in sand. 

They look, as men look back to land 


a 


The Hhip in the Desert 


4en standing out to stormy sea, 

+ still keep pace and murmur not; 
ep stern and still as destiny. 

Mi was a sight! A slim dog slid 
hite-mouth’ d and still along the 
sand, 

ne pleading picture of distress. 

is stopp’d, leap’d up to lick a hand, 
hard, black hand that sudden chid 
im back, and check’d his tender- 
ness. 

nen when the black man turn’d his 
) head, 

is poor, mute friend had fallen dead. 


‘The very air hung white with heat, 

nd white, and fair, and far away 

‘lifted, shining snow-shaft lay 

s if to mock their mad retreat. 

he white, salt sands beneath their 
feet 

lid make the black men loom as 
grand, 

rom out the lifting, heaving heat, 

s they rode sternly on and on, 

s any bronze men in the land 

hat sit their statue steeds upon. 

\ 

The men were silent as men dead. 

‘he sun hung centered overhead, 

lor seem’d to move. It molten 
hung 

ike some great central burner swung 

‘rom lofty beams with golden bars 

ia sacristy set round with stars. 


Why, flame could hardly be more 
hot; 
‘et on the mad purstier came 
,eross the gleaming, yielding ground, 


233 


Right on, as if he fed on flame, 
Right on until the mid-day found 
The man within a pistol-shot. 


He hail’d, but Morgan answered 
not; | 
He hail’d, then came a feeble shot, 
And strangely, in that vastness there, 
It seem’d to scarcely fret the air, 
But fell down harmless anywhere. 


He fiercely hail’d; and then there 

fell 

A horse. And then a man fell down, 

And in the sea-sand seem’d to drown. 

Then Vasques cursed, but scarce 
could tell 

The sound of his own voice, and all 

In mad confusion seem’d to fall. 


Yet on pushed Morgan, silent on, 
And as he rode, he lean’d and drew 
From his catenas gold, and threw 
The bright coins in the glaring sun. 
But Vasques did not heed a whit, 
He scarcely deign’d to scowl at it. 


Again lean’d Morgan. He uprose, 

And held a high hand to his foes, 

And held two goblets up, and one 

Did shine as if itself a sun. 

Then leaning backward from his 
place, 

He hurl’d them in his foeman’s face; 

Then drew again, and so kept on, 

Till goblets, gold, and all were gone. 


Yea, strew’d all out upon the sands 
As men upon a frosty morn, 
In Mississippi’s fertile lands, 
Hurl out great yellow ears of corn, 
To hungry swine with hurried hands. 


234 


Yet still hot Vasques urges on, 
With flashing eye and flushing cheek. 
What would he have? what does he 

seek? 
He does not heed the gold a whit, 
He does not deign to look at it; 
But now his gleaming steel is drawn, 
And now he leans, would hail again,— 
He opes his swollen lips in vain. 
But look you! See! A _ lifted 
hand, 
And Vasques beckons his command. 
He cannot speak, he leans, and he 
Bends low upon his saddle-bow. 
And now his blade drops to his knee, 
And now he falters, now comes on, 
And now his head is bended low; 
And now his rein, his steel, is gone; 
Now faint as any child is he; 
And now his steed sinks to the knee. 


The sun hung molten in mid-space, 
Like some great star fix’d in its place. 
From out the gleaming spaces rose 
A sheen of gossamer and danced, 

As Morgan slow and still advanced 

Before his far-receding foes. 

Right on, and on, the still, black line 

Drove straight through gleaming 
sand and shine, 

By spar and beam and mast, and 
stray 

And waif of sea and cast-away. 


The far peaks faded from their 
sight, 
The mountain walls fell down like 
night, 
And nothing now was to be seen 
Except the dim sun hung in sheen 


The Ship in the Desert 


Of gory garments all blood-red,— 
The hell beneath, the hell o’erhea 


steed. 

He clutch’d in death the moy 
sands, : 

He caught the hot earth in his har’ 

‘He gripp’d it, held it hard ; 
grim— 

The great, sad mother did not he 

His hold, but pass’d right on ft 
him. 


A black man tumbled from 
| 


XVII | 


The sun seem’d broken loose) 
last. | 
And settled slowly to the west, 
Half-hidden as he fell to rest, 
Yet, like the flying Parthian, cast 
His keenest arrows as he pass’d. 
i 
On, on, the black men slowly di 
Their length like some great | 
through 
The sands, and left a hollow’d groo 
They moved, they scarcely seem’d 
move. : 
How patient in their muffled treac! 
How like the dead march of the dei 
“At last the slow, black line y 
check’d, 
An instant only; now again | 
It moved, it falter’d now, and now 
It settled in its sandy bed, | 
And steeds stood rooted to the pla! 
Then all stood still, and men sor, 
how 
Look’d down and with averted he: 


1 
eae 


The Ship in the Desert 


jok’d down, nor dared look up, nor 
reck’d 

‘anything, of ill or good, 

tt bow’d and stricken still, they 
stood. 


Like some brave band that dared 
the fierce 
id bristled steel of gather’d host, 
ese daring men had dared to pierce 
ais awful vastness, dead and gray. 
ad now at last brought well at bay 
ey stood,—but each stood to his 
post. 


Then one dismounted, waved a 
hand, 

‘was Morgan’s stern and still com- 

mand. 

here fell a clank, like loosen’d chain, 

5 men dismounting loosed the rein. 


Then every steed stood loosed and 
free; 

nd some stepp’d slow and mute 
aside, 

nd some sank to the sands and died; 
nd some stood still as shadows be. 


Old Morgan turn’d and raised his 
hand 

nd laid it level with his eyes, 

nd looked far back along the land. 

fe saw a dark dust still uprise, 

till surely tend to where he lay. 

le did not curse, he did not say— 

fe did not even look surprise. 


Nay, he was over-gentle now; 
fe wiped a time his Titan brow, 
“hen sought dark Sybal in her place, 


235 


Put out his arms, put down his face 

And look’d in hers. She reach’d her 
hands, 

She lean’d, she fell upon his breast; 

He reach’d his arms around; she lay 

As lies a bird in leafy nest. 

And he look’d out across the sands 

And bearing her, he strode away. 


Some black men settled down to 
rest, 
But none made murmur or request. 
The dead were dead, and that were 
best; 
The living, leaning, follow’d him, 
A long dark line, a shadow dim. 


The day through high mid-heaven 
rode 

Across the sky, the dim, red day; 
And on, the war-like day-god strode 
With shoulder’d shield away, away. 
The savage, warlike day bent low, 
As reapers bend in gathering grain, 
As archer bending bends yew bow, 
And flush’d and fretted as in pain. 


Then down his shoulder slid his 
shield, 
So huge, so awful, so blood-red 
And batter’d as from battle-field: 
It settled, sunk to his left hand, 
Sunk down and down, it touch’d the 
sand; 
Then day along the land lay dead, 
Without one candle, foot or head. 


And now the moon wheel’d white 
and vast, 
A round, unbroken, marbled moon, 


236 


And touch’d the far, bright buttes of 
snow, 

Then climb’d their shoulders over 
soon; 

And there she seem’d to sit at last, 

To hang, to hover there, to grow, 

Grow grander than vast peaks of snow. 


She sat the battlements of time; 
She shone in mail of frost and rime 
A time, and then rose up and stood 
In heaven in sad widowhood. 


The faded moon fell wearily, 
And then the sun right suddenly 
Rose up full arm’d, and rushing came 
Across the land like flood of flame. 


And naw it seemed that hills up- 
rose, 
High push’d against the arching 
skies, 
As if to meet the sudden sun— 
Rose sharp from out the sultry dun, 
And seem’d to hold the free repose 
Of lands where flow’ry summits rise, 
In unfenced fields of Paradise. 


The black men look’d up from the 

sands 

Against the dim, uncertain skies, 

As men that disbelieved their eyes, 

And would have laugh’d; they wept 
instead, 

With shoulders heaved, with bowing 
head 

Hid down between the two black 
hands. 


They stood and gazed. Lo! like 
the call 


Che Hhip in the Desert 


Of spring-time promises, the trees 
Lean’d from their lifted mountai 

wall, | 
And stood clear cut against the skie: 
As if they grew in pistol-shot; 
Yet all the mountains answer’d not | 
And yet there came no cooling breez 
Nor soothing sense of wind-wet tree; 


At last old Morgan, lool 
through | 

His shaded fingers, let them go, | 
And let his load fall down as dead. | 
He groan’d, he clutch’d his beard o 
snow 

As was his wont, then bowing low, | 
Took up his life, and moaning said, 
‘Lord Christ! tis the mirage, and w 
Stand blinded in a burning sea.” | 


XVIII 


Again they move, but where or hoy 


It recks them little, nothing now. 

Yet Morgan leads them as before, | 
But totters now; he bends, and he | 
Is like a broken ship a-sea,— 
A ship that knows not any shore, | 
Nor rudder, nor shall anchor more. | 


Some leaning shadows crooning 
crept a 
Through desolation, crown’d in dust! 
And had the mad pursuer kept 
His path, and cherish’d his pursuit? | 
There lay no choice. Advance, he 
must: a | 
Advance, and eat his ashen fruit. 


Again the still moon rose and stoo¢ | 
Above the dim, dark belt of wood, | 


| 


seit 


SS eee 


nove the buttes, above the snow, 

nd bent a sad, sweet face below. 

‘ereach’d along the level plain 

ler long, white fingers. Then again 

‘e reach’d, she touch’d the snowy 

| sands. 

hen reach’d far out until she 

| touch’d 

heap that lay with doubled hands, 

hach’d from its sable self, and 

 clutch’d 

ith patient death. O tenderly 

nat black, that dead and hollow 

| #iace 

las kiss’d that night. ... 
if I say 

ne long, white moonbeams reach- 

ing there, 

aressing idle hands of clay, 

ad resting on the wrinkled hair 

ad great lips push’d in sullen pout, 

‘ere God’s own fingers reaching out 


yom heaven to that lonesome place? 


What 


XIX 


By waif and stray and cast-away, 
‘ich as are seen in seas withdrawn, 
ld Morgan led in silence on; 
iad sometimes lifting up his head, 

‘9 guide his footsteps as he led, 

‘edeem’d he saw a great ship lay 
er keel along the sea-wash’d sand, 
8 with her captain’s old command. 
|The stars were seal’d; and then a 
_ haze 
f gossamer fill’d all the west, 
> like in Indian summer days, 
nd veil’d all things. And then the 

moon 


The Ship in the Pesert 


Grew pale and faint, and far. 


237 


She 
died, 

And now nor star nor any sign 

Fell out of heaven. Oversoon 

A black man fell. Then at his side 
Some one sat down to watch, to rest— 
To rest, to watch, or what you will, 
The man sits resting, watching still. 


XX 


The day glared through the eastern 
rim 
Of rocky peaks, as prison bars, 
With light as dim as distant stars. 
The sultry sunbeams filter’d down 
Through misty phantoms weird and 
dim, 
Through shifting shapes bat-wing’d 
and brown. 


Like some vast ruin wrapp’d in 

flame 

The sun fell down before them now. 

Behind them wheel’d white peaks of 
snow, 

As they proceeded. Gray and grim 

And awful objects went and came 

Before them all. They pierced at 
last 

The desert’s middle depths, and lo! 

There loom’d from out the desert 
vast 

A lonely ship, well-built and trim, 

And perfect all in hull and mast. 


No storm had stain’d it any whit, 
No seasons set their teeth in it. 
Her masts were white as ghosts, and 
tall; 
Her decks were as of yesterday. 


238 


The rains, the elements, and all 
The moving things that bring decay 
By fair green lands or fairer seas, 
Had touch’d not here for centuries. 
Lo! date had lost all reckoning, 

And time had long forgotten all 

In this lost land, and no new thing 
Or old could anywise befall, 

For Time went by the other way. 


What dreams of gold or conquest 

drew 

The oak-built sea-king to these seas, 

Ere earth, old earth, unsatisfied, 

Rose up and shook man in disgust 

From off her wearied breast, and 
threw 

His high-built cities down, and dried 

These unnamed ship-sown seas to 


dust? 

Who trod these decks? What cap- 
tain knew 

The straits that led to lands like 
these? 


Blew south-sea breeze or north-sea 

breeze? 

What spiced-winds whistled through 
this sail? 

What banners stream’d above these 
seas? 

And what strange seaman answer’d 
back 

To other sea-king’s beck and hail, 

That blew across his foamy track? 


Sought Jason here the golden 
fleece? 
Came Trojan ship or ships of Greece? 
Came decks dark-mann’d from sul- 
try Ind, 


Che Hhip in the Pesert | 


| 

Woo’d here by spacious be | 
wind? | 

So like a grand, sweet woman, wh 
A great love moves her soul to | 


Came here strong ships of Solome 
In quest of Ophir by Cathay? . 
Sit down and dream of seas wit 
drawn, 
And every sea-breath drawn away. 
Sit down, sit down! What is t 
good | 
That we go on still fashioning 
Great iron ships or walls of wood, | 
High masts of oak, or anything? _ 


Lo! all things moving must go b. 
The seas lie dead. Behold, this lat 
Sits desolate in dust beside 
His snow-white, seamless shroud | 
sand; 

The very clouds have wept ar 
died, 

And only God is in the sky. 


| 


| 


XXI 
The sands lay heaved, as heaved b 
waves, | 
As fashioned in a thousand graves: 
And wrecks of storm blown here an 
there, 
And dead men 
where; 
And strangely clad they seem’d t 
be 
Just as they sank in that dread sea. 
The mermaid with her golden hai. 
Had clung about a wreck’s bean 
there, | 


scatter’d - | 


a * 
~~ 


The Ship in the Desert 


{ sung her song of sweet despair | 


> time she saw the seas with- 
drawn 

{all her pride and glory gone: 
isung her melancholy dirge 

ove the last receding surge, 

1, looking down the rippled tide, 
4d sung, and with her song had 
died. 


“he monsters of the sea lay bound 
strange contortions. Coil’d 
around 

aast half heaved above the sand 

3 great sea-serpent’s folds were 
found, 

solid as ship’s iron band; 

id basking in the burning sun 

are rose the great  whale’s 
skeleton. 


4 thousand sea things stretch’d 
across 

eir weary and bewilder’d way: 

nat unnamed monsters wrinkled 
lay 

th sunken 

_ form. 

e strong sea-horse that rode the 
storm 

ith mane as light and white as 
floss, 

v tangled in his mane of moss. 


eyes and shrunken 


And anchor, hull, and cast-away, 
id all things that the miser deep 
‘thin his darkling locker keep, 
tight and left around them lay. 
‘a, golden coin and golden cup, 

'd golden cruse, and golden plate, 
\d all that great seas swallow up, 


239 


Right in their dreadful pathway lay. 
The hoary sea made white with 


time, 

And wrinkled cross with many a 
crime, 

With all his treasured thefts lay 
there, 


His sins, his very soul laid bare, 
As if it were the Judgment Day. 


XXIT 


And now the tawny night fell 

soon, 

And there was neither star nor 
moon; 

And yet it seem’d it was not night. 

There fell a phosphorescent light, 

There rose from white sands and dead 
men 

A soft light, white and strange as 
when 

The Spirit of Jehovah moved 

Upon the water’s conscious face, 

And made it His abiding place. 


Remote, around the lonesome 
ship, 
Old Morgan moved, but knew it 
not, 
For neither star nor moon fell 
down. ... 


I trow that was a lonesome spot 

He found, where boat and ship did 
dip 

In sands like 
town. 


some _ half-sunken 


At last before the leader lay 
A form that in the night did seem 
A slain Goliath. Asin a dream, 


240 


He drew aside in his slow pace, 

And look’d. He saw a sable face) 

A friend that fell that very day, 

Thrown straight across his wearied 
way. 


He falter’d now. His iron heart, 
That never yet refused its part, 
Began to fail him; and his strength 
Shook at his knees, as shakes the 
wind 

A shatter’d 
mind 

Ranged up and down the land. At 
length 

He turn’d, as ships turn, tempest 
toss’d, 

For now he knew that he was lost! 

He sought in vain the moon, the 
stars, 

In vain the battle-star of Mars. 


ship. His shatter’d 


Again he moved. And now again 
He paused, he peer’d along the 
plain, 
Another form before him lay. 
He stood, and statue-white he stood; 
He trembled like a stormy wood,— 
It was a foeman brawn and gray. 


He lifted up his head again, 

Again he search’d the great pro- 
found 

For moon, for star, but sought in 
vain. 

He kept his circle round and round 

The great ship lifting from the sand, 

And pointing heavenward like a 
hand. 


And still he crept along the plain, 
Yet where his foeman dead again 


The Ship in the Beseri 


| 
| 
| 
I 
| 


Lay in his way he moved around, | 
And soft as if on sacred ground, 
And did not touch him anywhere, | 
It might have been he had a dread: 
In his half-crazed and fever’d brait 
His fallen foe might rise again | 
If he should dare to touch him the 


He circled round the loneso1 
ship | 
Like some wild beast within a wall 
That keeps his paces round a| 
FOUN ene | 
The very stillness had a sound; 
He saw strange somethings rise a 
dip; 
He felt the weirdness like a pall 
Come down and cover him, | 
seem’d | 
To take a form, take many forms, 
To talk to him, to reach out arms; 
Yet on he kept, and silent kept, | 
And as he lead he lean’d and slept. 
And as he slept he talk’d a 
dream’d. 


Two shadows follow’d, stopp. 
and stood 
Bewilder’d, wander’d back again, | 
Came on and then fell to the sand 
And sinking died. Then other me’ 
Did wag their woolly heads _ a 
laugh, 
‘Then bend their necks and seem | 
quaff 
Of cooling waves that careless flo’ 
Where woods and long, strong gras): 
grow. : | 


Yet on wound Morgan, leani: 
low, 


The Ship in the Mesert 


th her upon his breast, and slow 

‘hand upon a dial plate. 

did not turn his course or quail, 

. did not falter, did not fail, 

rn right or left or hesitate. 

| 

3ome far-off sounds had lost their 
way, 

.d seem’d to call to him and pray 

r help, as if they were affright. 

was not day, it seem’d not night, 

it that dim land that lies between 

te mournful, faithful face of night, 

id loud and gold-bedazzled day; 

night that was not felt but seen. 


There seem’d not now the ghost of 
sound, 

» stepp’d as soft as step the dead; 

st on he lead in solemn tread, 

hwilder’d, blinded, round 

. round, 

nout the great black ship that rose 

ill-masted as that ship that blows 

er ghost below lost Panama,— 

ae tallest mast man ever saw. 


and 


Two leaning shadows follow’d 

| “him: 

heir eyes were red, their teeth shone 

| white, 

deir limbs 
swim. 

nen one went left and one went 
right, 

ad in the night pass’d out of 
sight; 

iss’d_ through the portals black, 

unknown, 

nd Morgan totter’d on alone. 

16 


did lift as shadows 


241 


And why he still survived the 
rest, 
Why still he had the strength to stir, 
Why still he stood like gnarléd oak 
That buffets storm and tempest 
stroke, 
One cannot say, save but for her, 
That helpless being on his breast. 


She did not speak, she did not 

stir; 

In rippled currents over her, 

Her black, abundant hair pour’d 
down 

Like mantle or some sable gown. 

That sad, sweet dreamer; she who 
knew 

Not anything of earth at all. 

Nor cared to know its bane or bliss; 

That dove that did not touch the 
land, 

That knew, yet did not understand. 

And this may be because she drew 

Her all of life right from the hand 

Of God, and did not choose to learn 

The things that make up man’s 
concern. 


Ah! there be souls none under- 

stand; 

Like clouds, they cannot touch the 
land. 

Unanchored ships, they blow and 
blow, 

Sail to and fro, and then go down 

In unknown seas that none shall 
know, 

Without one ripple of renown. 


Call these not fools; the test of 
worth 


242 


Is not the hold you have of earth. 


Ay, there be gentlest souls sea- 


blown 
That know not any harbor known. 
Now it may be the reason is, 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 


At last he touch’d a fallen group, 
Dead fellows tumbled in the sands, 
Dead foemen, gather’d to their dead. 
And eager now the man did stoop, 


Lay down his load and reach his 


hands, 

And stretch his form and look stead- 
fast 

And frightful, and as one aghast. 

He lean’d, and then he raised his 
head, ; 

And look’d for Vasques, butin vain 

He peer’d along the deadly plain. 


Now, from the night another face, 
The last that follow’d through the 
deep, 
Comes on, falls dead within a pace. 
Yet Vasques still survives! But 
where? 
His last bold follower lies there, 
Thrown straight across old Morgan’s 
track, 
As if to check him, bid him back. 
He stands, he does not dare to stir, 
He watches by his charge asleep, 
He fears for her: but only her. 
The man who ever mock’d at death, 
He only dares to draw his breath. 


XXIII 


Beyond, and still as black despair, 
A man rose up, stood dark and tall, 


Che Hhip in the Desert 


Stretch’d out his neck, reach’d fort! 
let fall 

Dark oaths, and Death stood waits 
there. 


A tawny dead man stretil 
between, | 
And Vasques set his foot thereon. 
The stars were seal’d, the moon we 
gone, | 
The very darkness cast a shade. - | 
The scene was rather heard tha 
seen, | 
The rattle of a single blade. ... | 


A right foot rested on the dead, 
A black hand reach’d and clutch’d / 
beard, | 
Then neither pray’d, nor dream’d « 
hope. 
A fierce face reach’d, a black fac 
peer’d. . | 
No bat went teh overhead, 
No star fell out of Ethiope. 
The dead man lay between ther 
there, 
two men glared as vee 
glare,— 
The black man held him by th 
beard. 
He wound his hand, he held him fast 
And tighter held, as if he fear’d 
The man might ’scape him at th 
last. 
Whiles Morgan did not speal c 
stir, 
But stood in silent watch with nae | 


The 


Not long.... A_ light blad 


lifted, thrust, 


The Ship in the Desert 


nlade that leapt and swept about, 
wizard-like, like wand in spell, 

| like a serpent’s tongue thrust 
imput. .”... 

rust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as 
he fell, 

rust through until it touched the 
_ dust. 


Yet ever as he thrust and smote, 

black hand like an iron band 

d tighten round a gasping throat. 
‘fell, but did not loose his hand; 

|e two lay dead upon the sand. 


Lo! up and from the fallen forms 

vo ghosts came, dark as gathered 
storms; 

vo gray ghosts stood, then looking 
back; 

ith hands all empty, and hands 
clutch’d, 

rode on in silence. 
touch’d, 

iong the lonesome, chartless track, 

here dim Plutonian darkness fell, 

ien touch’d the outer rim of hell; 

ad looking back their great despair 

‘+ sadly down, as resting there. 


Then they 


XXIV 


As if there was a strength in 
_ death 

1e battle seem’d to nerve the man 
b superhuman strength. He rose, 
eld up his head, began to scan 

‘ne heavens and to take his breath 
ight strong and lustily. He now 
esumed his part, and with his eye 
ix’d on a star that filter’d through 


243 


The farther west, push’d bare his 
brow, 

And kept his course with head held 
high, 

As if he strode his deck and drew 

His keel below some lofty light* 

That watch’d the rocky reef at 
night. 


How lone he was, how patient she 
Upon that lonesome sandy sea! 
It were a sad, unpleasant sight 
To follow them through all the 
night, 
Until the time they lifted hand, 
And touch’d at last a water’d land. 


The turkeys walk’d the tangled 
grass, 
And scarcely turn’d to let them pass. 
There was no sign of man, nor sign 
Of savage beast. "Iwas so divine, 
It seem’d as if the bended skies 
Were rounded for this Paradise. 


The large-eyed antelope came down 
From off their windy hills, and blew 
Their whistles as they wander’d 

through 
The open groves of water’d wood; 
They came as light as if on wing, 
And reached their noses wet and 
brown 
And stamp’d their little feet and 
stood 
Close up before them, wondering. 


What if this were that Eden old, 
They found in this heart of the 
new 


244 


And unnamed westmost world of 
gold, 

Where date and history had birth, 

And man began first wandering 

To go the girdle of the earth, 

And find the beautiful and true? 


It lies a little isle mid land, 

An island in a sea of sand; 

With reedy waters and the balm 

Of an eternal summer air; 

Some blowy pines toss here and 
there; 

And there are grasses long and 
strong, 

And tropic fruits that never fail: 

The Manzanita pulp, the palm, 

The prickly pear, with all the song 

Of summer birds. And there the 
quail 

Makes nest, and you may hear her 
call 

All day from out the chaparral. 


A land where white man never 
trod, 
And Morgan seems some demi-god, 
That haunts the red man’s spirit 
land. 
A land where never red man’s hand 
Is lifted up in strife at all, 
But holds it sacred unto those 
Who bravely fell before their foes, 
And rarely dares its desert wall. 


Here breaks nor sound of strife nor 
sign; 
Rare times a chieftain comes this 
way, 
Alone, and battle-scarr’d and gray, 
And then he bends devout before 


The Ship in the Desert 


The maid who keeps the cabin-do¢ 
And deems her something all divin 


Within the island’s heart ’tis sai) 
Tall trees are bending down Wi 
bread, 
And that a fountain pure as Truth 
And deep and mossy-bound and fa 
Is bubbling from the forest there, 
Perchance the fabled fount of yout 
An isle where skies are ever fair, 
Where men keep never date nor da 
Where Time has thrown his gle 
away. 


Thisisleis all theirown. No mo} 
The flight by day, the watch | 
night. 
Dark Sybal twines about the | 
The scarlet blooms, the blossor 
white | 
And winds red berries in her hair, © 
And never knows the name of care. 


She has a thousand birds; th 
blow 

In rainbow clouds, 
snow; 

The birds take berries from her han 

They come and go at her commané 


in clouds : 


She has a thousand pretty birds, 
That sing her summer songs all day, 
Small, black-hoof'd antelope in here! 
And squirrels bushy-tail’d and gray 
With round and sparkling eyes — 

pink, | 
And cunning-faced as you can thin 


She has a thousand busy birds: | 
And is she happy in her isle, . 


The Sea of Fire 


‘ith all her feather’d friends and 

_ herds? 

yr when has Morgan seen her 
smile? 


She has a thousand cunning birds, 
ney would build nestings in her hair, 
ie has brown antelope in herds; 

ie never knows the name of care; 


hy, then, is she not happy there? 


All patiently she bears her part; 

ie has a thousand birdlings there, 

ese birds they would build in her 
hair; 

‘st not one bird builds in her heart. 


| THE SEA 
| a land so far that you wonder 
whether 
If God would know it should you fall 
down dead; 
taland so far through the soft, warm 
weather 
That the sun sinks red as a warrior 
sped,— 
‘here the sea and the sky seem closing 
together, 
Seem closing together as a book that ts 
! read; 


“is the half-finished world! 

. fall retreating,— 

‘It might be the Maker disturbed at 

his task. 

ut the footfall of God, or the far pheas- 
ant beating, 

It is one and the same, whatever the 


mask 


Yon foot- 


245 


She has a thousand birds; yet 
she 
Would give ten thousand cheerfully, 
All bright of plume and clear of 
tongue, 
And sweet as ever trilled or sung, 
For one small flutter’d bird to come 
And build within her heart, though 
dumb. 


She has a thousand birds; yet 


one 

Is lost, and, lo! she is undone. 

She sighs sometimes. She looks 
away, 


And yet she does not weep or say. 


OF FIRE 

It may wear unto man. The woods 
keep repeating | 

The old sacred sermons, whatever 
you ask. 


It is man in his garden, scarce wakened 
as yet 
From the sleep that fell on him when 
woman was made. 
The new-finished garden is plastic and 
wet 
From the hand that has fashioned its 
unpeopled shade; 
And the wonder still looks from the fair 
woman’s eyes 
t As she shines through the wood ltké 
| the light from the skies. 


And a ship now and then for this far 
Ophir yore 


246 
Draws in from the sea. It lies close 
to the bank; 
Then a dull, muffled sound on the 
slow shuffled plank 
As they load the black ship; but you 
hear nothing more, 
And the dark, dewy vines, and the 
tall, somber wood 
Like twilight drop over the deep, 
sweeping flood. 


The black masts are tangled with 
branches that cross, 


The rich fragrant gums fall from | 


branches to deck, 

ine thin ropes are swinging with 
streamers of moss 

That mantle all things. like the 

shreds of a wreck; 

The long mosses swing, there is never a 
breath: 

The river rolls still as the river of death. 


In the beginning,—ay, before 
The six-days’ labors were well o’er; 
Yea, while the world lay incomplete, 
Ere God had opened quite the door 
Of this strange land for ations men’s 
feet,— 

There lay against that westmost sea, 
A weird, wild land of mystery. 


A far white wall, like fallen moon, 
Girt out the world. The forest lay 
So deep you scarcely saw the day, 
Save in the high-held middle noon: 
It lay a land of sleep and dreams, 


; The Sea of Fire 


And clouds drew through like sho 
less streams | 

That stretch to where no man m 
say. 


Men reached it only from the se 
By black-built ships, that seemed | 
creep 
Along the shore suspiciously, 
Like unnamed monsters of the dee 
It was the weirdest land, I ween, : 
That mortal eye has ever seen. 


A dim, dark land of bird a 


beast, 

Black shaggy beasts with claw. 
claw,— 

A land that scarce knew prayer 
priest, 


Or law of man, or Nature’s law; 
Where no fixed line drew sha 

dispute | 
’Twixt savage man and sullen brut 


II 


It hath a history most fit 
For cunning hand to fashion on; 
No chronicler hath mentioned it; 
No buccaneer set foot upon. | 
‘Tis of an outlawed Spanish Don, 
A cruel man, with pirate’s gold 
That loaded down his deep 7 
hold. 


A deep ship’s hold of plunden 
gold! 
The golden cruse, the golden cross, 
From many a church of Mexico, 
From Panama’s mad overthrow, 
From many a ransomed city’s loss, 


| 
| 


| 


| 


& 


The Sea of Fire 


‘om many a follower fierce and 
_ bold, 
ad many a foeman stark and cold. 


He found this wild, lost land. He 
_ drew 

is ship to shore. His ruthless 
crew, 

ke Romulus, laid lawless hand 
nmeek brown maidens of the land, 
nd in their bloody forays bore 

ed firebrands along the shore. 


III 


The red men rose at night. They 
came, . 

firm, unflinching wall of flame; 

hey swept, as sweeps some fateful 
sea 

er land of sand and level shore 

hat howls in far, fierce agony. 

he red men swept that deep, dark 
shore 

s threshers sweep a threshing floor. 


_And yet beside the slain Don’s 
door 

hey left his daughter, as they fled: 

hey spared her life because she 
bore 

‘heir Chieftain’s blood and name. 
The red 

nd blood-stained hidden hoards of 

| gold 

‘hey hollowed from the stout ship’s 
hold, 

ind bore in many a slim canoe— 


‘o ‘where? The good priest only 


knew. 


247 
IV 


The course of life is like the sea; 
Men come and go; tides rise and fall; 
And that is all of history. : 
The tide flows in, flows out today— 
And that is all that man may say; 
Man is, man was,—and that is all. 


Revenge at last came lke a 

tide,— 

’Twas sweeping, deep and terrible; 

The Christian found the land, and 
came : 

To take possession in Christ’s name. 

For every white man that had died 

I think a thousand red men fell,— 

A Christian custom; and the land 

Lay lifeless as some burned-out 
brand. 


V 


Ere while the slain Don’s daughter 

grew 

A glorious thing, a flower of spring, 

A something more than mortals 
knew; 

A mystery of grace and face,— 

A silent mystery that stood 

An empress in that sea-set wood, 

Supreme, imperial in her place. 


It might have been men’s lust for 
gold,— 
For all men knew that lawless crew 
Left hoards of gold in that ship’s 
hold, 
That drew ships hence, and silent 
drew 


248 


Strange Jasons there to love or 
dare; 
I never knew, nor need I care. 


& 

I say it might have been this gold 
That ever drew and strangely drew 
Strong men of land, strange men of 

sea 
To seek this shore of mystery 
With all its wondrous tales untold; 
The gold or her, which of the two? 
It matters not to me, nor you. 


But this I know, that as for me, 
Between that face and the hard fate 
That kept me ever from my own, 
As some wronged monarch from his 

throne, 
All heaped-up gold of land or sea 
Had never weighed one feather’s 
weight. 


Her home was on the wooded 
height,— 
A woody home, a priest at prayer, 
A perfume in the fervid air, 
And angels watching her at night. 
I can but think upon the skies 
That bound that other Paradise. 


VI 


Below a star-built arch, as grand 
As ever bended heaven spanned, 
Tall trees like mighty columns 

grew— 
They loomed as if to pierce the blue, 
They reached, as reaching heaven 
through. 


Che Sea of Fire 


The shadowed stream rolled 
below, 
Where men moved noiseless to | 
fro 
As in some vast cathedral, when _ 
The calm of prayer comes to men, 
And benedictions bless them so. 


What wooded sea-banks, wild a 
steep! | 
What trackless wood! what sno 
cone | 
That lifted from this wood alone! — 
What wild, wide river, dark a 
deep! 
What ships against the shore | | 


VII 
An Indian woman cautious crept 
About the land the while it slept, — 
The relic of her perished race. 
She wore rich, rudely-fashion 
bands | 
Of gold above her bony hands; 
She hissed hot curses on the place! | 


VIII 


Go seek the red man’s last retrea, 
What lonesome lands! what haunt 
lands! 
Red mouths of beasts, red men’s re 
hands; 
Red prophet-priests, in mute defeat 
From Incan temples overthrown « 
To lorn Alaska’s isles of bone | 
The red man lives and dies alone. _ 
His boundaries in blood are writ! 
His land is ghostland! That is his, 


| 
| 


Whatever we may claim of this; 

3eware how you shall enter it! 

Je stands God’s guardian of ghost- 
lands; 

lea, this same wrapped half-prophet 
stands 

\fl nude and voiceless, nearer to 

[he dread, lone God than I or you. 


IX 


This bronzed child, by that river’s 
brink, 
3tood fair to see as you can think, 
As tall as tall reeds at her feet, 
As fresh as flowers in her hair; 
As sweet as flowers over-sweet, | 
As fair as vision more than fair! 


How beautiful she was! How wild! 
How pure as_ water-plant, this 
child,— 

This one wild child of Nature here 
Grown tall in shadows. 


And how near 
To God, where no man stood between 
Her eyes and scenes no man hath 
| ~ seen,— 
This maiden that so mutely stood, 
The one lone woman of that wood. 
Stop still, my friend, and do not 
stir, 
‘Shut close your page and think of 
her. 
The birds sang sweeter for her face; 
Her lifted eyes were like a grace 
To seamen of that solitude, 
However rough, however rude. 


ohe Sea of Fire 


249 


The rippled river of her hair, 
Flowed in such wondrous waves, 
somehow 
Flowed down divided by her brow, 
It mantled her within its care, > 
And flooded all her form below, 
In its uncommon fold and flow. 


A perfume and an incense lay 
Before her, as an incense sweet 
Before blithe mowers of sweet May 
In early morn. Her certain feet 
Embarked on no uncertain way. 


Come, think how perfect before 
men, 

How sweet as sweet magnolia bloom 

Embalmed in dews of morning, 


when 
Rich sunlight leaps from midnight 
gloom @ 


Resolved to kiss, and swift to kiss 
Ere yet morn wakens man to bliss. 


Xx 


The days swept on. Her perfect 

year 

Was with her now. The sweet 
perfume 

Of womanhood in holy bloom, 

As when red harvest blooms appear, 

Possessed her soul. The priest did 
pray 

That saints alone should pass that 
way. 


A red bird built beneath her roof, 
Brown squirrels crossed her cabin 
sill, 
And welcome came or went at will. 


250 


A hermit spider wove his web 
Above her door and plied his trade, 
With none to fright or make afraid. 


Orn. silly elk, the spotted fawn, 
_ And all dumb beasts that came to 
drink, 
That stealthy stole upon the brink 
By coming night or going dawn, 
On seeing her familiar face 
Would fearless stop and stand in place. 


She was so kind, the beasts of 
night 
Gave her the road as if her right; 
The panther crouching overhead 
In sheen of moss would hear her 
tread, 
And bend his eyes, but never stir 
Lest he by chance might frighten her. 


Yet in her splendid mya her 
eyes, 
There lay the lightning of the skies; 
The love-hate of the lioness, 
To kill the instant or caress: 
A pent-up soul that sometimes grew 
Impatient; why, she hardly knew. 


At last she sighed, uprose, and 
threw 
Her strong arms out as if to hand 
Her love, sun-born and all complete 
At birth, to some brave lover’s feet 
On some far, fair, and unseen land, 
As knowing not quite what to do! 


XI 


How beautiful she was: 
Was inspiration! 


Why, she 
She was born 


The Sea of Hire 


To walk God’s sunlit hiils a: we 

Nor waste her by this wood- davié S| 

What wonder, then, her soul’s wh, 
wings 

Beat at its bars, like living things! 


Once more she sighed! “She wa 
dered through 
The sea-bound wood, then stopp 
and drew 


Her hand above her face, and swept 
The lonesome sea, and all day kept: 
Her face to sea, as if she knew 
Some day, some near or distay 
day, : 
Her destiny should come that way, 


| 


XII 


How proud she was! How dark 
fair! 


How full of faith, of love, of strength 


Her calm, proud eyes! Her = | 
hair’s length,— | 

Her long, strong, tumbled, careles 

¢4 Hair, | 

Half curled and knotted any 
where,— 


By brow or breast, or cheek or chin, 
For love to trip and tangle in! 


| 


XIII 


At last a tall strange sail was 
seen: 
It came so slow, so wearily, 2 | 
Came creeping cautious up the sea, 
As if it crept from out between 
The half-closed sea and sky that lay 
Tight wedged together, faraway. 


The Sea of Fire 


She watched it, wooed it. She did 
pray 

Tt might not pass her by but bring 

Some love, some hate, some any- 

_ thing, 

To break the awful loneliness 

That like a nightly nightmare lay 

Upon her proud and pent-up soul 

Until it barely brooked control. 


XIV 


The ship crept silent up the sea, 

And came— 
You cannot understand 
How fair she was, how sudden she 
Had sprung, full grown, to woman- 
hood. 

How gracious, yet how proud and 
, grand; 
How glorified, yet fresh and free, 
How human, yet how more than 
good. 


XV 


_ The ship stole slowly, slowly on,— 
Should you in Californian field 

{n ample flower-time behold 

he soft south rose lift like a shield; 
\gainst the sudden sun at dawn 

\ double handful of heaped gold, 
Why you, perhaps, might understand 
dow splendid and how queenly she 
Jprose beside that wood-set sea. 


The storm-worn ship scarce seemed 
| = to creep 
‘rom wave to wave. It scarce could 
_ keep— 


251 


How still this fair girl stood, how 
fair! 

How tall her presence as she stood 

Between that vast sea and west 
wood! 

How large and liberal her soul, 

How confident, how purely chare, 

How trusting; how untried the whole 

Great heart, grand faith, that 
blossomed there. 


XVI 


Ay, she was as Madonna to 
The tawny, lawless, faithful few 
Who touched her hand and knew her 
soul: 
She drew them, drew them as the 
pole 
Points all things to itself. 


She drew 
Men upward as a moon of spring 
High wheeling, vast and bosom-full, 
Half clad in clouds and white as wool, 
Draws all the strong seas following. 


Yet still she moved as sad, as 
lone 
As that same moon that leans above, 
And seems to search high heaven 
through 
For some strong, all sufficient love, 
For one brave love to be her own, 
Be all her own and ever true. 


Oh, I once knew a sad, sweet 
dove 
That died for such sufficient love, 
Such high, white love with wings to 
soar, 


252 
That looks love level in the face, 
Nor wearies love with leaning o’er 
To lift love level to her-place. 


XVII 


How slow before the sleeping 
breeze, 
That stranger ship from under seas! 
How like to Dido by her sea, 
When reaching arms imploringly,— 
Her large, round, rich, impassioned 
arms, 
Tossed forth from all her storied 
charms— 
This one lone maiden leaning stood 
Above that sea, beneath that wood! 


The ship crept strangely up the 

seas; 

Her ateoids seemed shreds, her masts 
seemed trees,— 

Strange tattered trees of botahian 
bough 

That knew no cease of storm till 
now. 

‘The maiden pitied her; she prayed 


Her crew might come, nor feel 
afraid; 

She prayed the winds might come,— 
they came, 


As birds that answer to a name. 


The maiden held her blowing 


hair 

That bound her beauteous self 
about; 

The sea-winds housed within her 
hair; 


She let it go, it blew in rout 
About her bosom full and bare. 


‘The Sea of Fire | 


Her round, full arms were free Ey 
air, 

Her high hands rset as clasped i i 
prayer. 


akan 


The eae grew bold, the batten 
ship | 
Began to flap her weary wings; | 
The tall, torn masts began to dip 
And walk the wave like living things. 
She rounded in, moved up the stream 
She moved like some majestic dream. | 


The captain kept her deck. H 
stood | 
A Hercules among his men; 
And now he watched the sea, ant 
then | 
He peered as if to pierce the wood. | 
He now looked back, as if pursued, 
Now swept the sea with glass a 
though . 
He fled, or feared some prowling foe 
Slow sailing up the river’s mouth, | 
Slow tacking north, slow tackiny) 
south, 
He touched the overhanging wood; 
He kept his deck, his tall blac 


/ 
| 


| 


mast 
Touched tree-top mosses as he | 
passed; | 
He touched the steep shore where she 
stood. 


a 

XIX | 
Her hands still clasped as if in 
prayer, 


The Sea of Fire 


3weet prayer set to silentness; | 
Her sun-browned throat uplifted, 
bare 
And beautiful. 
Her eager face 
{flumed with love and tenderness, 
And all her presence gave such grace, 
That she seemed more than mortal, 
fair. 


AX 


He saw. He could not speak. 
No more 

With lifted glass he swept the sea; 

No more he watched the wild new 
shore. 

Now foes might come, now friends 

might flee; 

He could not speak, he would not 
stir,— 

He saw but her, he feared but her. 


The black ship ground against the 
shore 

With creak and groan and rusty 
clank, 
‘And tore the mellow blossomed bank; 
She ground against the bank as one 
With long and weary journeys done, 
That will not rise to jonrney more. 


Yet still tall Jason silent stood 

And gazed against that sea-washed 
wood, 

As one whose soul is anywhere. 

All seemed so fair, so wondrous fair! 

At last aroused, he stepped to land 

Like some Columbus; then laid 
hand 


293 


On lands and fruits, and rested 
there. 


XXI 


He found all fairer than fair 
morn 
In sylvan land, where waters run 
With downward leap against the 
sun, 
And full-grown sudden May is born. 
He found her taller than tall corn 
Tiptoe in tassel; found her sweet 
As vale where bees of Hybla meet. 


An unblown rose, an unread 
book; 
A wonder in her wondrous eyes; 
A large, religious, steadfast look 
Of faith, of trust,—the look of one 
New fashioned in fair Paradise. 


He read this book—read on and 
on 
From title page to colophon: 
As in cool woods, some summer day, 
You find delight in some sweet lay, 
And so entranced read on and on 
From title page to colophon. 


XXII 
And who was he that rested 


there,— 
This giant of a grander day, 


This Theseus of a nobler Greece, 


This Jason of the golden fleece? 

Aye, who was he? And who were 
they 

That. came to seek the hidden gold 


254 


Long hollowed from the pirate’s 
hold? 
I do not know. You need not care. 


They loved, this maiden and this 
man, 
And that is all I surely know,— 
The rest is as the winds that blow, 
He bowed as brave men bow to fate, 
Yet proud and resolute and bold; 
She shy at first, and coyly cold, 
Held back and tried to hesitate,— 
Half frightened at this love that ran 
Hard gallop till her hot heart beat 
Like sounding of swift courser’s 
feet. 


XXIII 


Two strong streams of a land must 


run 

Together surely as the sun 

Succeeds the moon. Who = shall 
gainsay 

The gods that reign, that wisely 
reign? 


Love is, love was, shall be again. 
Like death, inevitable it is; 
Perchance, like death, the dawn of 
bliss. 
Let us, then, love the perfect day, 
The twelve o’clock of life, and stop 
The two hands pointing to the top, 
And hold them tightly while we may. 


XXIV 


How beautiful islove! The walks 
By wooded ways; the silent talks 


The ere of fire 


Beneath the broad and fragran 
bough. | 

The dark deep wood, the dense blac 
dell, 

Where scarce a single gold bear 
fell 

From out the sun. 


They rested nov 
On mossy trunk. They wanderet 
then | 
Where never fell the feet of men. 
Then longer walks, then deepe 
woods, | 
Then sweeter talks, sufficient sweet, 
In denser, deeper solitudes,— 
Dear careless ways for careles. 
feet; | 
Sweet tales of paradise for two, | 
And only two to watch or woo. 
She rarely Soe | All seemed é 
dream 
She would not waken from. She te 
All night but waiting for the day, 
When she might see his face, anc 
deem | 
This man, with all his perils passed, | 
Had found sweet Lotus-land at last. 
| 
XXV : 


The year waxed fervid/ and the 
sun | 
Fell central down. The forest lay 
A-quiver in the heat. The sea 
Below the steep bank seemed to run 
A molten sea of gold. 
Away 
Against the gray and_ rock- built 
isles 


The Sea of Fire 


‘hat broke the molten watery miles 

Vhere lonesome sea-cows called all 
day, 

‘he sudden sun smote angrily. 


Therefore the need 
deeps, 

if denser shade for man and maid, 

if higher heights, of cooler steeps, 

Vhere all day long the sea-wind 
stayed. 


of deeper 


They sought the rock-reared steep. 
The breeze 
wept twenty thousand miles of 
seas; 
fad twenty thousand things to say, 
f love, of lovers of Cathay, 
0 lovers ’mid these mossy trees. 


XXVI 
To left, to right, below the 
height, 
elow the wood by wave and 
| stream, 
lumed pampas grass did wave and 
gleam 


nd bend their lordly plumes, and 
run 

nd shake, as if in very fright 

efore sharp lances of the sun. 


_ They saw the tide-bound, battered 

| ship 

teep close below against the bank; 

hey saw it cringe ana@ shrink; it 
shrank 

S shrinks some huge black beast 
with fear, 


295 


When some uncommon dread is 
near. 

They heard the melting resin drip, 

As drip the last brave blood-drops 
when 

Red battle waxes hot with men. 


XXVIII 


Yet what to her were burning seas, 
Or what to him was forest flame? 
They loved; they loved the glorious 
trees; 

The gleaming tides might rise or 
fall,— 

They loved the whispering winds that 


came 

From sea-lost spice-set isles un- 
known, 

With breath not warmer than their 
own; 

They loved, they loved,—and that 
was all. 

XXVIII 
Full noon! Above, the ancient 

moss 

From mighty boughs swang slow 
across, 

As when some priest slow chants a 
prayer 

And swings sweet smoke and per- 
fumed air 


From censer swinging—anywhere. 


He spake of love, of boundless 
love,— 
Of love that knew no other land, 
Or face, or place, or anything; 
Of love that like the wearied dove 


256 


Could light nowhere, but kept the 
wing 

Till she alone put forth her hand 

And so received it in her ark 

From seas that shake against the 
dark! 


Her proud breast heaved, her pure, 
bare breast 
Rose like the waves in their unrest 
When counter storms possess the 
seas. 
mouth, her 
mouth, 
Her ardent mouth that thirsted so,— 
No glowing love song of the South 
Can say; no man can say or know 
Such truth as lies beneath such 
trees. 


Her arch, uplifted 


Her 
she 
Disdained the cup of passion he 
Hard pressed her panting lips to 
touch. 
She dashed it by, uprose, and she 
Caught. fast her breath. She 
trembled much, 
Then sudden rose full height, and 
stood 
An empress in high womanhood: 
She stood a tower, tall as when 
Proud Roman mothers suckled men 
Of old-time truth and taught them 
such. 


face still lifted up. And 


XXIX 


Her soul surged vast as space is. 
She 
Was trembling as a courser when 


Che Sea of Fire 


Touch velvet on the turf, and he 
Is all afoam, alert and fleet 

As sunlight glancing on the sea, 
And full of triumph before men. 


His thin flank quivers, and his fee 
7 


: 
At last she bended some her fac 
Half leaned, then put him back 
pace, : 
And met his eyes. 
Calm, silently 

Her eyes looked deep into | 
eyes,— | 

As maidens search some mossy we 
And peer in hope by chance to tell 
By image there what future lies 
Before them, and what face shall }: 
The pole-star of their destiny. 


Pure Nature’s lover! Loving hi 
With love that made all pathwe' 
dim 
And difficult where he was not,— : 
Then marvel not at forms forgot. : 
And who shall chide? Doth pri) 
know aught 7a 
Of sign, or holy unction brought _ 
From over seas, that evercan 
Make man love maid or maid Ic 
man | 
One whit the more, one bit the les: | 
For all his mummeries to bless? 
Yea, all his blessings or his ban? 
| 
Thewinds breathed warm asArak 
She leaned upon his breast, she lay 
A wide-winged swan with fold 


wing. 
He drowned his hot face in 4 
hair, aa | 


E 


| The Sea of Fire 


i; heard her great heart rise and 
sing; 
2: felt her bosom swell. 


The air 
‘ooned sweet with perfume of her 
form. 
lar breast was warm, her breath was 
warm, 
nd warm her warm and perfumed 
mouth 
s summer journeys through the 
south. 


XXX 
The argent sea surged steep below, 
irged languid in such tropic glow; 
ad two great hearts kept surging 
so! 
The fervid kiss of heaven lay 
recipitate on wood and sea. 
wo great souls glowed with 
ecstasy, 
he sea glowed scarce as warm as 
_ they. 


XXXI 


’Twas love’s warm amber after- 
noon. 

wo far-off pheasants thrummed a 
tune, 

cricket clanged a restful air. 

he dreamful billows beat a rune 

like heart regrets. 

Around her head 

here shone a halo. Men have said 

(was from a dash of Titian red 

‘hat flooded all her storm of hair 

agold and glory. But they knew, 


17 


257 


Yea, all men know there ever grew 
A halo round about her head 
Like sunlight scarcely vanishéd. 


XXXII 
How still she was! She only 
knew 
His love. She saw no life beyond. 


She loved with love that only lives 
Outside itself and selfishness,— 

A love that glows in its excess; 

A love that melts pure gold, and 


gives 

Thenceforth to all who come to 
woo 

No coins but this face stamped 
thereon ,— 


Ay, this one image stamped upon 
Pure gold, with some dim date long 
gone. 


XXXII 


They kept the headland high; the 

ship 

Below began to chafe her chain, 

To groan as some great beast in 
pain: 

While white fear leapt from lip to 
lip: 

‘“The woods on fire! 
flame! 

Come down and save us in God’s 
name!”’ 


The woods in 


He heard! he did not speak or 
stir,— 
He thought of her, of only her, 


258 


While flames behind, before them 
lay 
To hold the stoutest heart at bay! 


Strange sounds were heard far up 


the flood, 

Strange, savage sounds that chilled 
the blood! 

Then sudden, from the dense, dark 
wood 


Above, about them where they stood 

Strange, hairy beasts came peering 
out; 

And now was thrust a long black 
snout, 

And now a tusky mouth. It was 

A sight to make the stoutest pause. 


“Cut loose the ship!”’ the black 
mate cried; 
“Cut loose the ship!’”’ the crew 
replied. 


They drove into the sea. It lay 
As light as ever middle day. 


And then a half-blind bitch that 

sat 

All slobber-mouthed, and monkish 
cowled 

With great, broad, floppy, leathern 
ears 

Amid the men, rose up and howled, 

And doleful howled her plaintive 
fears, 

While all looked mute aghast thereat. 

It was the grimmest eve, I think, 

That ever hung on Hades’ brink. 

Great broad-winged bats possessed 
the air, 

Bats whirling blindly everywhere; 

It was such troubled twilight eve 

As never mortal would believe. 


Che Sea of Fire 


XXXIV 
Some say the crazed hag it : 
wood 
In circle where the lovers stood 
Some say the gray priest feared : 
crew 
Might find at last the hoard of gc 
Long hidden from the black al 
hold,— 
I doubt me if men ever knew. 
But. such mad, howling, flame 
shore | 
No mortal ever knew before. 


Huge beasts above that shin 


sea, 
Wild, hides beasts with shaj 
hair, 
With red mouths lifting in the air, 
All piteous howled, and cd 
tively,— 
The wildest sounds, the weird 
sight 


That ever shook the walls of night 


How lorn they howled, with it 
head, 

To dim and distant isles that lay | | 
Wedged tight along a line of red, | 
Caught in the closing gates of day 
’Twixt sky and sea and far away,- 
It was the saddest sound to hear 
That ever struck on human ear. 


They doleful called; and answer 
they 
The plaintiff sea-cows far away,— 
The great sea-cows that called fre 
isles, 
Away across red flaming miles, 


The Sea of Fire 259 


ith dripping mouths and _ lolling 
tongue, 

5 if they called for captured 

| young ,— 


‘The huge sea-cows that called the 

_ whiles 

heir great wide mouths were mouth- 
ing moss; 

nd still they doleful called across 

rom isles beyond the watery miles. 

o sound can half so doleful be 

§ sea-cows.calling from the sea. 


XXXV 


The sun, outdone, lay down. He 
lay 

4seas of blood. He sinking drew 

‘he gates of sunset sudden to, 

nd they in shattered fragments lay. 

‘hen night came, moving in mad 
flame; 

‘hen full night, lighted as he came, 

is lighted by high summer sun 

Yescending through the burning 
blue. 

t was a gold and amber hue, 

rye, all hues blended into one. 


~The moon came on, came leaning 
low. 
‘he moon spilled splendor where she 
came, 
And filled the world with yellow 
flame 
‘\long the far sea-isles aglow; 
She fell along that amber flood, 
\ silver flame in seas of blood. 
t was the strangest moon, ah me! 
That ever settled on God’s sea, 


XXXVI 
Slim snakes slid down from fern 
and grass, 
From wood, from fen, from any- 
where; 
You could not step, you could not 
pass, 


And you would hesitate to stir, 
Lest in some sudden, hurried tread 
Your foot struck some wunbruiséd 
head: 
It seemed like infernal 
dream; 
They slid in streams into the stream; 
They curved and sinuous curved 
across, 
Like living streams of living moss,— 
There is no art of man can make 
A ripple like a swimming snake! 


some 


XXXVII 


Encompassed, lorn, the lovers 
stood, 

Abandoned there, death in the air! 

That beetling steep, that blazing 
wood— 

Red flame! red flame, and every- 
where! 

Yet he was born tc strive, to bear 

The front of battle. He would die 

In noble effort, and defy 


The grizzled visage of despair. : 


He threw his two strong arms 
full length 

As if to surely test their strength; 

Then tore his vestments, textile 
things 


260 


That could but tempt the demon 
wings 

Of flame that girt them round 
about, 

Then threw his garments to the air 

As one that laughed at death, at 
doubt, 

And like a god stood thewed and 

- bare. 


She did not hesitate; she knew 
The need of action; swift she threw 
Her burning vestments by, and 
bound 

Her wondrous wealth of hair that 
fell 

An all-concealing cloud around 

Her glorious presence, as he came 

_ To seize and bear her through the 
flame,— 

An Orpheus out of burning hell! 


He leaned above her, wound his 

arm 

About her splendor, while the noon 

Of flood tide, manhood, flushed his 
face, 

And high flames leapt the high head- 
land !— 

They stood as twin-hewn statues 
stand, 

High lifted in some storied place. 


He clasped her close, he spoke of 
death,— 
Of death and love in the same 
breath. 
He clasped her close; her bosom lay 
Like ship safe anchored in some bay, 
Where never rage or rack of main 
Might even shake her anchor chain. 


The Sea of Fire 


XXXVIII 


The flames! They could not sta 
or stay; | 
Beyond, the beetling steep, the see 
But at his feet a narrow way, 
A short steep path, pitched sudder 
Safe open to the river’s beach, 
Where lay a small white isle 
reach,— 
A small, white, rippled isle of sat 
Where yet the two might safely land, 
And there, through smoke ai 
flame, behold 


The priest stood safe, yet : 
appalled! 

He reached the cross; he cried, j 
called; | 

He waved his high-held cross . 
gold. | 

He called and called, he bade the; 
fly 


Through flames to him, nor bide an 
die! 


: 
Her lover saw; he saw, and knew 
His giant strength could bear he 
through. ; 
And yet he would not start or stir. 
He clasped her close as death ca 
hold, 
Or dying miser clasp his gold,— 
His hold became a part of her. 


He would not give her up! H 
would 1 
Not bear her waveward though. h 

could! 
That height was heaven; the way 
was hell. | 


q 


| The Hea of Fire 


le clasped her close,—what else had 
done 

‘he manliest man beneath the sun? 

Jas it not well? was it not well? 


Oman, be glad! be grandly glad, 
nd king-like walk thy ways of 
death! 

‘or more than years of bliss you 

had 

‘hat one brief time you breathed her 
breath, 

‘ea, more than years upon a throne 

‘hat one brief time you held her 
fast, 


oul surged to soul, vehement, 
vast,— 

‘rue breast to breast, and all your 
own. 


| 
Live me one day, one narrow night, 


ne second of supreme delight 

ike that, and I will blow like chaff 

‘he hollow years aside, and laugh 

loud trimphant laugh, and I, 

ling-like and crowned, will gladly 
die. 

{ 

Oh, but to wrap my love with 

flame! 

Vith flame within, 
without! 

jh, but to die like this, nor doubt— 

‘o die and know her still the same! 

*o know that down the ghostly shore 

now-white she walks for ever more! 


with flame 


XXXIX 


“He poised her, held her high in 
air,— 


261 


His great strong limbs, his great arm’s 
length !— 

Then turned his knotted shoulders 
bare 

As birth-time in his splendid strength, 

And strode with lordly, kingly stride 

To where the high and wood-hung 
edge 

Looked down, far down upon the 
molten tide. 

The flames leaped with him to the 
ledge, 

The flames leapt leering at his side. 


XL 


He leaned above theledge. Below 
He saw the black ship grope and 
cruise,— 
A midge below, a mile below. 
His limbs were knotted as the thews 
Of Hercules in his death-throe. 


The flame! the flame! the envious 
flame! 
She wound her arms, she wound her 
hair 
About his tall form, grand and 
bare, 
To stay the fierce flame where it 
came. 


The black ship, like some moonlit 
wreck, 
Below along the burning sea 
Groped on and on all silently, 
With silent pigmies on her deck. 


That midge-like ship, far, far 


below; 


262 


That mirage lifting from the hill! 

His flame-lit form began to grow,— 

To glow and grow more grandly 
still. 

The ship so small, that form so tall, 

It grew to tower over all. 


A tall Colossus, bronze and gold, 
As if that flame-lit form were he 
Who once bestrode the Rhodian sea, 
And ruled the watery world of old: 
As if the lost Colossus stood 
Above that burning sea of wood. 


And she! that shapely form up- 
held, 
Held high as if to touch the sky, 
What airy shape, how. shapely 
high,— 
What goddess of the seas of eld! 


Her hand upheld, her high right 
hand, 
As if she would forget the land; 
As if to gather stars, and heap 
The stars like torches there to light 
Her hero’s path across the deep 
To some far isle that fearful night. 


XLI 


The envious flame, one moment 
leapt 
Enraged to see such majesty, 
Such scorn of death; such kingly 
SCOTT yh 4k 
Then like some lightning-riven tree 


The Sea of Fire 


They sank down in that flame— 
slept. 

Then all was hushed above that sft 

So still that they might sleep q 
sleep, 

As when a Summer’s day is bor, | 


At last! from out the embers le 
Two shafts of light above © 
night,— 
Two wings of flame that litt 
swept 
steady, calm, 
flight; 
Two wings of flame against ° 
white | 
Far-lifting, tranquil, snowy cone; 
Two wings of love, two wings 
light, | 
Far, far above that troubled night 


upwi 


In and 


As mounting, mounting to Go 


throne. 


XLII 


And all night long that upwe 


light 
Lit up the sea-cow’s bed below: 
The far sea-cows still calling so 


. 
. 


It seemed as they must call 


| 


night. | 
All night! there was no night. Ne 
nay, | 
There was no night. The night th | 
lay : 


Between that awful eve and day,— 


# 


away. 


That nameless night was burn 


Q@ Song of the South 


263 


A SONG OF THE SOUTH 


Part I 


Rhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow, 
‘iver, rhymer ever sweet! 

ie story of thy land is meet; 

ve stars stand listening to know. 


Rhyme on, O river of the earth! 

(ay father of the dreadful seas, 

ime on! the world upon tts knees 

ivokes thy songs, thy wealth, thy 
worth. 


Rhyme on! the reed 1s at thy mouth, 
(kingly minstrel, mighty stream! 

vy Crescent City, like a dream, 

ngs in the heaven of my South. 


“Rhyme on, rhyme on! these broken 
strings 

ing sweetest in this warm south 
wind; 

sit thy willow banks and bind 

broken harp that fitful sings. 


1 


And where is my silent, sweet 

_ blossom-sown town? 

nd where is her glory, and what has 

_ she done? 

y her Mexican seas in the path of 

| the sun, 

4 you down; in her crescent of seas, 
-sit you down. 


| Aye, glory enough by her Mexican 
seas! 


Aye, story enough in that battle-torn 
town, 

Hidden down in her crescent of seas, 
hidden down 

In her mantle and sheen of magnolia- 
white trees. 


But mine is the story of souls; of a 

soul 

That barter’d God’s limitless kingdom 
for gold,— 

Sold stars and all space for a thing he 
did hold 

In his palm for a day; and then hid 
with the mole: 


Sad soul of a rose-land, of moss- 
mantled oak— 
Gray, Druid-old oaks; and the moss 
that sways 
And swings in the wind is the battle- 
smoke 
Of duelists dead, in her storied days: 


Sad soul of a love-land, of church- 

bells and chimes; 

A love-land of altars and orange- 
flowers; 

And that is the reason for all these 
rhymes— 

That church-bells are ringing through 
all these hours! 


This sun-land has churches, has 
priests at prayer, 
White nuns, that are white as the far 
north snow: 
They go where duty may bid them 
g0,— 


264 
They dare when the angel of death is 
there. 


This love-land has ladies, so fair, 

so fair, 

In their Creole quarter, with great 
black eyes— 

So fair that the Mayor must keep 
them there 

Lest troubles, like troubles of Troy, 
arise. 


This sun-land has ladies with eyes 

held down, 

Held down, because if they lifted 
them, 

Why, you would be lost in that old 
French town, 

Though even you held to God’s gar- 
ment hem. 


This love-land has ladies so fair, so 

fair, 

That they bend their eyes to the holy 
book, 

Lest you should forget yourself, your 
prayer, 

And never more cease to look and to 
look. 


And these are the ladies that no 
men see, 
And this is the reason men see them 
not; 
Better their modest, sweet mystery— 
Better by far than red battle-shot. 


And so, in this curious old town of 
tiles, 
The proud French quarter of days 
long gone, 


Q Song of the South 


In castles of Spain and tumble- do 
piles, 
These wonderful ladies live on and) 


I sit in the church where they co 
and go; 
I dream of glory that has long sit 
gone; 
Of the low raised high, of the hi 
brought low . 
As in battle-torn days of Napoleo 


These brass-plaited places, so ric 

So poor! 

One quaint old church at the edge 
the town 

Has white tombs laid to the ve 
church door— 

White leaves in the story of 1 
turn’d down: 


White leaves in the story of lifea a 

these, 

The low, white slabs in the lon 
strong grass, 

Where glory has emptied her hou 
glass, 

And dreams with the dreame 
beneath the trees. 


I dream with the dreamers beneat 
the sod, 
Where souls pass by to the gre 
white throne; 
I count each tomb as a mute rah 
stone | 
For weary, sweet souls on their wa 
to God. | 


I sit all day by the vast, stron 
stream, 


@ Song of the South 


Mid low white slabs in the long, 
strong grass, 

WNhere time has forgotten for aye to 
pass, 

fo dream, and ever to dream and to 
dream. 


This quaint old church, with its 
' dead to the door, 
3y the cypress swamp at the edge of 


the town, 


jo restful it seems that you want to | 


sit down 
{nd rest you, and rest you for ever- 
more. 


III 


_ The azure curtain of God’s house 
Jraws back, and hangs star-pinned 
_ to space; 

“hear the low, large moon arouse, 
\nd slowly lift her languid face. 


_ I see her shoulder up the east, 

Aw-necked, and large as woman- 

_  hood— 

w-necked, as for some ample 
feast 

d£ gods, within yon orange-wood. 

| She spreads white palms, she 
whispers peace,— 

Paes peace on earth forevermore; 

Yweet peace for two beneath the 

| trees, 

)weet peace for one within the door. 


The bent 


| scimitar, 


stream, as God’s 


265 


Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and 
on, 

Till sheathed, like some great sword 
new-drawn, 

In seas beneath the Carib’s star. 


The high moon climbs the sapphire 
hill, 
The lone sweet lady prays within; 
The crickets keep such clang and 
din— 
They are so loud, earth is so still! 


And two men glare in silence 
there! 
The bitter, jealous hate of each 
Has grown too deep for deed or 
speech— 
The lone sweet lady keeps her 
prayer. 


The vast moon high through 
heaven’s field 
In circling chariot is rolled; 
The golden stars are spun and 
reeled, 
And woven into cloth of gold. 


The white magnolia fills the night 
With perfume, as the proud moon 
fills 
The glad earth with her ample light 
From out her awful sapphire hills. 


White orange-blossoms fill the 
boughs 

Above, about the old church-door; 

They wait the bride, the bridal 
vows,— 


They never hung so fair before. 


266 


The two men glare as dark as sin! 
And yet all seem so fair, so white, 
You would not reckon it was night,— 
The while the lady prays within. 


IV 


She prays so very long and late,— 
The two men, weary, waiting there,— 
The great magnolia at the gate 
Bends drowsily above her prayer. 


The cypress in his cloak of moss, 
That watches on in silent gloom, 
Has leaned and shaped a shadow cross 
Above the namelss, lowly tomb. 


What can she pray for? What her 
sin? 
What folly of a maid so fair? 
What shadows bind the wondrous 
hair 
Of one who prays so long within? 


The palm-trees guard in regiment, 
Stand right and left without the gate; 
The myrtle-moss trees wait and wait; 
The tall magnolia leans intent. 


The cypress-trees, on gnarled old 
knees, 

Far out the dank and marshy deep 

Where slimy monsters groan and 
creep, 

Kneel with her in their marshy seas. 


What can her sin be? Who shall 
know? 

The night flies by,—a bird on 
wing; 


a Song of the South 


The men no longer to and fro 
Stride up and down, or anything. 


For one, so weary and so old, 
Has hardly strength to stride or sti: 
He can but hold his bags of gold,— 
But hug his gold and wait for her. 


The two stand still,—stand face t 
face. 
The moon slides on, the midnight ai 
Is perfumed as a house of prayer,— 
The maiden keeps her holy place. 


Two men! 
one 
Scarce lifts a full-grown face as yet 
With light foot on life’s threshok 

Seu 
Is he the other’s sun-born son? 


And one is gray, bu 


And one is of the land of snow, 
And one is of the land of sun; 
A black-eyed, burning youth is one, 
But one has pulses cold and slow: 


Aye, cold and slow from clime 0 
snow 
Where Nature’s bosom, icy bound, 
Holds all her forces, hard, profound 
Holds close where all the South let 
go. 


Blame not the sun, blame not thi 
snows,— 
God’s great schoolhouse for all i 
clime; | 
The great school teacher, Pathe: 
Time, 
And each has borne as best he 
knows. 


@ Song of the South 


At last the elder speaks,—he cries, 
iespeaks as if his heart would break; 
te speaks out as a man that dies,— 
As dying for some lost love’s sake: 


“Come, take this bag of gold, and 
go! 

Jome, take one bag! See, I have two! 

Yh, why stand silent, staring so, 

Vhen I would share my gold with 
you? 


“Come, take this gold! See how I 
pray! 
ee how I bribe, and beg, and buy,— 
\ye, buy! and beg, as you, too, may 
ome day before you come to die. 


“God! take this gold, I beg, I pray! 
beg as one who thirsting cries 
‘or but one drop of drink, and dies 
n some lone, loveless desert way. 


“You hesitate? Still hesitate? 
‘tand silent still and mock my pain? 
till mock to see me wait and wait, 
ind wait her love, as earth waits 
Werain?”” 


V 


0 broken ship! O starless shore! 

) black and everlasting night! 

Vhere love comes never any more 

fo light man’s way with heaven’s 
light. — 


A godless man with bags of gold 
think a most unholy sight; 
\h, who so desolate at night, 
Amid death’s sleepers still and cold? 


267 


A godless man on holy ground 
I think a most unholy sight. 
I hear death trailing, like a hound, 
Hard after him, and swift to bite. 


VI 


The vast moon settles to the west; 
Yet still two men beside that tomb, 
And one would sit thereon to rest,— 
Aye, rest below, if there were room. 


VII 


What is this rest of death, sweet 
friend? 
What is the rising up, and where? 
I say, death is a lengthened prayer, 
A longer night, a larger end. 


Hear you the lesson I once learned: 
I died; I sailed a million miles 
Through dreamful, flowery, restful 
isles,— 
She was not there, and I returned. 


I say the shores of death and sleep 
Are one; that when we, wearied, come 
To Lethe’s waters, and lie dumb, 
Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep. 


Yea, we lie dead for need of rest, 
And so the soul drifts out and o’er 
The vast still waters to the shore 
Beyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest: 


It sails straight on, forgetting pain, 
Past isles of peace, to perfect rest,— 
Now were it best abide, or best 
Return and take up life again? 


268 


And that is all of death there is, 
Believe me. If you find your love 
In that far land, then, like the dove, 
Pluck olive boughs, nor back to this. 


But if you find your love not there; 
Or if your feet feel sure, and you 
Have still allotted work to do,— 
Why, then haste back to toil and care. 


Death is no mystery. ’Tis plain 
If death be mystery, then sleep 
Is mystery thrice strangely deep,— 
For oh, this coming back again! 


Austerest ferryman of souls! 
I see the gleam of shining shores; 
I hear thy steady stroke of oars 
Above the wildest wave that rolls. 


O Charon, keep thy somber ships! 
I come, with neither myrrh nor balm, 
Nor silver piece in open palm,— 
Just lone, white silence on my lips. 


VIII 


She prays so long! she prays so iate! 
What sin in all this flower land 
Against her supplicating hand 
Could have in heaven any weight? 


Prays she for her sweet self alone? 
Prays she for some one far away, 
Or some one near and dear today, 
Or some poor lorn, lost soul unknown? 


It seems to me a Selfish thing 
To pray forever for one’s self; 
It seems to me like heaping pelf, 
In heaven by hard reckoning. 


A Song of the South 


Why, I would rather stoop and be 
My load of sin, and bear it well 
And bravely down to your hard he 
Than pray and pray a selfish pray: 


IX 


The swift chameleon in the gloom 
This gray morn silence so profound! 
Forsakes its bough, glides to t 

ground, 
Then up, and lies acrosss the tomt 


It erst was green as olive-leaf; 
It then grew gray as myrtle moss 
The time it slid the tomb across; 
And now ’t is marble-white as gri 


The little creature’s hues are go 
Here in the gray and ghostly light; 
It lies so pale, so panting white,— 
White as the tomb it lies upon. 


The two still by that namele 
tomb! 
And both so still! 
said, 
These two men, they are also dead, 
And only waiting here for room. 


You might ha 


How still beneath the orang 
bough! 
How tall was one, how bowed w 
one! 
The one was as a journey done, 
The other as beginning now. 


And one was young,—young wil 
that youth | 
Eternal that belongs to truth; 


@ Song of the South 


nd one was old,—old with the years 
hat follow fast on doubts and fears. 


And yet the habit of command 
Tas his, in every stubborn part; 
~ocommon knave was he at heart, 
or his the common coward’s hand. 


‘He looked the young man in the 

Wetace, 

ofull of hate, so frank of hate; 

he other, standing in his place, 

tared back as straight and hard as 
fate. 


_ And now he sudden turned away, 
nd now he paced the path, and now 
ame back beneath the orange bough, 
ale-browed, with lips as cold as clay. 


As mute as shadows on a wall, 

s silent still, as dark as they, 

efore that stranger, bent and gray, 

he youth stood scornful, proud and 
tall. 


He stood a clean palmetto tree 
ith Spanish daggers guarding it; 
lor deed, nor word, to him seemed fit 
Thile she prayed on so silently. 


_He slew his rival with his eyes— 
lis eyes were daggers piercing deep, 
0 deep that blood began to creep 
rom their deep wounds and drop 
-~ wordwise. 


His eyes so black, so bright, that 
_ they 
light raise the dead, the living slay, 


269 


If but the dead, the living bore 
Such hearts as heroes had of yore. 


Two deadly arrows barbed in black, 
And feathered, too, with raven’s 
wing; 
Two arrows that could silent sting, 
And with a death-wound answer back. 


How fierce he was! how deadly still 
In that mesmeric, searching stare 
Turned on the pleading stranger there 
That drew to him, despite his will! 


So like a bird down-fluttering, 
Down, down, beneath a _ snake’s 
bright eyes, 
He stood, a fascinated thing, 
That hopeless, unresisting, dies. 


He raised a hard hand as before, 
Reached out the gold, and offered it 
With hand that shook as ague-fit,— 
The while the youth but scorned the 

more. 


“You will not touch it? In God’s 
name, 
Who are you, and what are you, then? 
Come, take this gold,and be of men,— 
A human form with human aim. 


“Yea, take this gold,—she must be 


mine! 
She shall be mine! I do not fear 
Your scowl, your scorn, your soul 
austere, 


The living, dead, or your dark sign. 


‘“‘T saw her as she entered there; 


. I saw her, and uncovered stood; 


270 


The perfume of her womanhood 
Was holy incense on the air. 


“She left behind sweet sanctity, 
Religion went the way she went; 
I cried I would repent, repent! 

She passed on, all unheeding me. 


“Her soul is young, her eyes are 
bright 
And gladsome, as mine own are dim; 
But oh, I felt my senses swim 
The time she passed me by tonight !— 


“The time she passed, nor raised 
her eyes 
To hear me cry I would repent, 
Nor turned her head to hear my cries, 
But swifter went the way she went,— 


“Went swift as youth, for all these 
years! 
And this the strangest thing appears, 
That lady there seems just the 
same,— 
Sweet Gladys—Ah! you know her 
name? 


“You hear her name and start that 
I 
Should name her dear name trembling 
so? 
Why, boy, when I shall come to die 
That name shall be the last I know. 


“That name shall be the last sweet 
name 
My lips shall utter in this life! 
That name is brighter than bright 
flame,— 
That lady is mine own sweet wife! 


@ Song of the South 


“Ah, start and catch your burni 
breath! 
Ah, start and clutch your dead 
knife! 
If this be death, then be it death,— 
But that loved lady is my wife! 


“Yea, you are stunned! your fa; 
is white, 
That I should come confronting yo 
As comes a lorn ghost of the night 
From out the past, and to pursue. 


“You thought me dead? Ye 
shake your head, 
You start back horrified to know 
That she is loved, that she is wed, 
That you have sinned in loving so. 


“Yet what seems strange, that lad 
there, 
Housed in the holy house of prayer, 
Seems just the same for all he 
tears,— 
For all my absent twenty years. 


“Yea, twenty years tonight, tc 
night,— . 
Just twenty years this day, this how 
Since first I plucked that perfec 
flower, 
And not one witness of the rite. 


“Nay, do not doubt,— I tell yo 
true! 
Her prayers, her tears, her constane: 
Are all for me, are all for me,— : 
And not one single thought for you 


“‘T knew, I knew she would be her 
This night of nights to pray for me! 


A Song of the South 271 


| 
-\nd how could I for twenty year 
“now this same night so certainly? 


_ “Ah me! some thoughts that we 
would drown, 
tick closer than a brother to 
“he conscience, and pursue, pursue, 
Ake baying hound, to hunt us down. 


_ “And, then, that date is history; 

‘or on that night this shore was 
shelled, 

ind many a noble mansion felled, 

Vith many a noble family. 


| “TI wore the blue; I watched the 


flight . 
)f shells, like stars tossed through the 
air 
‘o blow your hearth-stones—any- 
where, 


k 


“hat wild, illuminated night. 


“Nay, rage befits you not so well; 

Vhy, you were but a babe at best; 

7our cradle some sharp bursted shell 

‘hat tore, maybe, your mother’s 
breast! 


“Hear me! We came in honored 
war. 

“he risen world was on your track! 

“he whole North-land was at our 
back, 

'rom Hudson’s bank to the North 


Star! 


| “And from the North to palm-set 
a) 

‘he splendid fiery cyclone swept. 

‘our fathers fell, your mothers wept, 

“heir nude babes clinging to the knee. 


‘““A wide and desolated track: 
Behind, a path of ruin lay; 
Before, some women by the way 
Stood mutely gazing, clad in black. 


“From silent women waiting there 
White tears came down like still, 
small rain; 
Their own sons of the battle-plain 
Were now but viewless ghosts of air. 


“Their own dear, daring boys in 
gray,— 
They should not see them any more; 
Our cruel drums kept telling o’er 
The time their own sons went away. 


“Through burning town, by burst- 
ing shell— 
Yea, I remember well that night; 
I led through orange-lanes of light, 
As through some hot outpost of hell! 


“That night of rainbow shot and 
shell 
Sent from yon surging river’s breast 
To waken me, no more to rest,— 
That night I should remember well! 


“That night, amid the maimed and 
dead— 
A night in history set down 
By light of many a burning town, 
And written all across in red,— 


“Her father dead, her brothers 
dead, 
Her home in flames,—what else could 
she 
But fly all helpless here to me, 
A fluttered dove, that night of dread? 


2. iP 


‘Short time, hot time had I to 
woo 
Amid the red shells battle-chime; 
But women rarely reckon time, 
And perils waken love anew. 


“‘Aye, then I wore a captain’s 
sword; 
And, too, had oftentime before 
Doffed cap at her dead father’s door, 
And passed a lover’s pleasant word. 


‘“‘ And then—ah, I was comely then! 
I bore no load upon my back, 
I heard no hounds upon my track, 
But stood the tallest of tall men. 


‘‘Her father’s and her mother’s 
shrine, 
This church amid the orange-wood; 
So near and so secure it stood, 
It seemed to beckon as a sign. 


‘“‘Its white cross seemed to beckon 
me; , 
My heart was strong, and it was mine 
To throw myself upon my knee, 
To beg to lead her to this shrine. 


“She did consent. 

of light 

I led through this church-door that 
night— 

Let fall your hand! Take back your 
face 

And stand,—stand patient in your 
place! 


Through lanes 


‘‘She loved me; and she loves me 
still. 
Yea, she clung close to me that hour 


A Song of the South 


As honey-bee to honey-flower,— 
And still is mine through good or} 


‘The priest stood there. He spa 
the prayer; | 
He made the holy, mystic sign, 
And she was mine, was whol 
mine,— 
Is mine this moment, I can swear! 


“Then days, then nights of va 
delight,— 
Then came a doubtful later day; 
The faithful priest, nor far away, 
Watched with the dying in the fight 


“The priest amid the dying, dea 
Kept duty on the battle-field,— — 
That midnight marriage unreveal 
Kept strange thoughts running thi 

my head. 


‘“‘At last a stray ball struck t 
priest; 
This vestibule his chancel was; 
And now none lived to speak h 
cause, 
Record, or champion her the least. 


“Hear me! I had been bred to ha 
All priests, their mummeries and a 
Ah, it was fate,—ah, it was fate _ 
That all things tempted to my fall 


“‘And then the dashing songs V 
sang a 
Those nights when rudely reveling, 
Such songs that only soldiers sing,- 
Until the very tent-poles rang! 


Q Song of the South 


‘What is the rhyme that rhymers 
say, 

maidens born to be betrayed 

‘epaulettes and shining blade, 

hile soldiers love and ride away? 


“And then my comrades spake her 
name 

lf taunting, with a touch of shame; 

iught me to hold that lily-flower 

:some light pastime of the hour. 


“And then the ruin in the land, 

1e death, dismay, the lawlessness! 

en gathered gold on every hand,— 

raped gold: and why should I do 
less? 


“The cry for gold was in the air,— 

wr Creole gold, for precious things; 

ie sword kept prodding here and 
there, 

iough bolts and sacred fastenings. 

“*Get gold! get gold!’ This was 
the cry. 

id Iloved gold. What else could I 

> you, or any earnest one, 

orn in this getting age, have done? 


“With this one lesson taught from 
youth, 

ad ever taught us, to get gold,— 

9 get and hold, and ever hold,— 

‘hat else could I have done, for- 

sooth? 


“She, seeing how I crazed for gold, 
his girl, my wife, one late night told 
f treasures hidden close at hand, 
ther dead father’s mellow land; 

18 


273 


““Of gold she helped her brothers 
hide 
Beneath a broad banana-tree 
The day the two in battle died, 
The night she, dying, fled to me. 


“It seemed too good; I laughed to 
scorn 
Her trustful tale. She answered not; 
But meekly on the morrow morn 
These two great bags of bright gold 
brought. 


‘‘And when she brought this gold 
to mer— 
Red Creole gold, rich, rare, and old,— 
When I at last had gold, sweet gold, 
I cried in very ecstasy. 


“Red gold! rich gold! two bags of 


gold! 

The two stout bags of gold she 
brought 

And gave, with scarce a second 
thought,— 


Why, her two hands could scarcely 
hold! 


“Now I had gold! two bags of 
gold! 
Two wings of gold, to fly, and fly 
The wide world’s girth; red gold to 
hold 
Against my heart for aye and aye! 


“My country’s lesson: ‘Gold! get 
gold!’ 
learned it well in land of snow; 
And what can glow, so brightly glow, 
Long winter nights of northern cold? 


274 


“Aye, now at last, at last I had 
The one thing, all fair things above, 
My land had taught me most to love! 
A miser now! and I grew mad. 


“With these two bags of gold my 
own, 
I soon began to plan some night 
For flight, for far and sudden flight, — 
For flight; and, too, for flight alone. 


“T feared! I feared! My heart 
grew cold,— 
Some one might claim this gold of 
me! 


I feared her,—feared her purity— 
Feared all things but my bags of gold. 


“I grew to hate her face, her creed, 
That face the fairest ever yet 
That bowed o’er holy cross or bead, 
Or yet was in God’s image set. 


“T fled,—nay, not so knavish low, 
As you have fancied, did I fly: 
I sought her at this shrine, and I 
Told her full frankly I should go. 


“I stood a giant in my power,— 
And did she question or dispute? 
I stood a savage, selfish brute,— 
She bowed her head, a lily-flower. 


“And when I sudden turned to go, 
And told her I should come no more, 
She bowed her head so low, so low, 
Her vast black hair fell pouring o’er. 


‘And that was all; her splendid face 
Was mantled from me, and her night 
Of hair half hid her from my sight, 
As she fell moaning in her place. 


A Song of the South 


“And there, through her dark nig 
of hair, 


She sobbed, low moaning in her tea 


That she would wait, wait all ¢ 
years,— 
Would wait and pray in her despair. 


‘Nay, did not murmur,not deny, 
She did not cross me one sweet wor 
I turned and fled; I thought I hear 
A night-bird’s piercing low deat 

ery!’’ 


PART II 


How soft the moonlight of my Soui 
How sweet the South in soft moonlig, 
I want to kiss her warm, sweet mouth 
As she lies sleeping here tonight. 


How still! I do not hear a mou 
I see some bursting buds appear: 
I hear God tn his garden,—hear 
Him trim some flowers for His house. 


I hear some singing stars; the moi 
Of my vast river sings and sings, 
And pipes on reeds of  pleasa 

things,— ; 
Of splendid promise for my South: 


My great South-woman, soon to ri 
And tiptoe up and loose her hair: 
Tiptoe, and take from out the skies 
God’s stars and glorious moon to wet 


I 


The poet shall create or kill, — 


Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die. 


I look against a lurid sky,— 


My silent South lies proudly still. 


@ Song of 


The fading light of burning lands 

iil climbs to God’s house overhead; 

ute women wring white, withered 
hands; 

\eir eyes are red, their skies are red. 


And we still boast our bitter wars! 
ill burn and boast, and boast and lie 
1t God’s white finger spins the stars 
calm dominion of the sky. 


And not one ray of light the less 
ymes down to bid the grasses spring ; 
o drop of dew nor anything 

all fail for all our bitterness. 


If man grows large, is God the less? 
ne moon shall rise and set the same, 
he great sun spill his splendid flame, 
ad clothe the world in queenliness. 


Yea, from that very blood-soaked 
sod 

yme large-souled, seeing youth shall 
come 

me day, and he shall not be dumb 

efore the awful court of God.’ 


II 


The weary moon had turned away, 
he far North Star was turning pale 
o hear the stranger’s boastful tale 

f blood and flame that battle-day. 


And yet again the two men glared, 
lose face to face above that tomb; 
ach seemed as jealous of the room 
he other, eager waiting shared. 


the South 275 


Again the man began to say,— 
As taking up some broken thread, 
As talking to the patient dead,— 
The Creole was as still as they: 


“That night we burned yon grass- 
grown town,— 
The grasses, vines are reaching up; 
The ruins they are reaching down, 
As sun-browned soldiers when they 
sup. 


“‘T knew her,—knew her constancy. 
She said this night of every year 
She here would come, and kneeling 
here, 
Would pray the livelong night for me. 


“This praying seems a splendid 
thing! 
It drives old Time the other way; 
It makes him lose all reckoning 
Of years that I have had to pay. 


“This praying seems a splendid 
thing! 
It makes me stronger as she prays— 
But oh, those bitter, bitter days, 
When I became a banished thing! 


‘*T fled, took ship,—I fled as far 
As far ships drive tow’rd the North 
Star: 
For I did hate the South, the sun 
That made me think what I had done. 


“T could not see a fair palm-tree 
In foreign land, in pleasant place, 
But it would whisper of her face 
And shake its keen, sharp blades at 

me. 


276 


“Each black-eyed woman would 
recall 
A lone church-door, a face, a name, 
A coward’s flight, a soldier’s shame: 
I fled from woman’s face, from all. 


“T hugged my gold, my precious 
gold, 
Within my strong, stout buckskin 
vest. 
I wore my bags against my breast 
So close I felt my heart grow cold. 


“T did not like to see it now; 
I did not spend one single piece; 
I traveled, traveled without cease 
As far as Russian ship could plow. 


“‘And when my own scant hoard 
was gone, 
And I had reached the far North-land, 
I took my two stout bags in hand 
As one pursued, and journeyed on. 


“Ah, I was weary! I grew gray; 
I felt the fast years slip and reel, 
As slip bright beads when maidens 
kneel 
At altars when outdoor is gay. 


“At last I fell prone in the road,— 
Fell fainting with my cursed load. 
A skin-clad Cossack helped me bear 
My bags, nor would one shilling share. 


“He looked at me with proud dis- 
dain,— 
He looked at me as if he knew; 
His black eyes burned me thro’ and 
thro’; 
His scorn pierced like a deadly pain. 


A Song of the South 


‘He frightened me with honesty 
He made me feel so small, so base, 
I fled, as if a fiend kept chase,— 
A fiend that claimed my company! 


“I bore my load alone; I crept 
Far up the steep and icy way; 
And there, before a cross there lay 
A barefoot priest, who bowed a1 

wept. 


“T threw my gold right down a1 
sped 


Straight on. And oh, my heart w 


light! 
A springtime bird in springtime fligl 
Flies scarce more happy than I fled 


“IT felt somehow this monk wou 
take 
My gold, my load from off my bacl 
Would turn the fiend from off m 
track, 
Would take my gold for sweet Christ 
sake! 


“T fled; I did not look behind; 
I fled, fled with the mountain wind. 
At last, far down the mountain’s bas 
I found a pleasant resting-place. 


“‘T rested there so long, so well, 
More grateful than all tongues Ca: 
tell. | 
It was such pleasant thing to hear 
That valley’s voices calm and clear: 


“That valley veiled in mountait 
air, 
With white goats on the hills at mom, 
That valley green with seas of corn 


@ Song of the South 


ith cottage-islands here and there. 


“I watched the mountain girls. 
The hay 

1ey mowed was not more sweet than 
they; 

iey laid brown hands in my white 
hair; 

1ey marveled at my face of care. 


“T tried to laugh; I could but weep. 

nade these peasants one request,— 

vat I with them might toil or rest, 

1d with them sleep the long, last 
sleep. 


“T begged that I might battle 
there, 

that fair valley-land, for those 

ho gave me cheer, when girt with 
foes, 

1d have a country loved as fair. 


“Where is that spot that poets 
name 

ir country? name the hallowed 
land? 

‘here is that spot where man must 
stand 

r fall when girt with sword and 
flame? 


“Where is that one permitted spot? 
"here is the one place man must 
fight? 

There rests the one God-given right 
0 fight, as ever patriots fought? 


“Tsay ’tis in that holy house 
"here God first set us down on earth; 
"here mother welcomed us at birth, 


277 


And bared her breasts, a happy 
spouse. 


“The simple plowboy from his 
field 
Looks forth. He sees God’s purple 
wall 
Encircling him. High over all 
The vast sun wheels his shining shield. 
“This King, who makes earth 
what it is,— 
King David bending to his toil! 
O Lord and master of the soil, 
How envied in thy loyal bliss! 


“Long live the land we loved in 
youth, 
That world with blue skies bent 
about, 
Where never entered ugly doubt! 
Long live the simple, homely truth! 


“Can true hearts love some far 
snow-land, 
Some bleak Alaska bought with gold? 
God’s laws are old as love is old; 
And Home is something near at hand. 


“Yea, change yon river’s course; 
estrange — 
The seven sweet stars; make hate 
divide 
Thefull moon fromthe flowing tide,— 
But this old truth ye cannot change. 


“T begged a land as begging bread; 

I begged of these brave mountaineers 

To share their sorrows, share their 
tears; 

To weep as they wept with their dead. 


ehiAir fs. 


“They did consent. The mountain 
town 
Was mine to love, and valley lands. 
That night the barefoot monk came 
down 
And laid my two bags in my hands! 


“On!on! And oh, the load I bore! 
Why, once I dreamed my soul was 
lead; 
Dreamed once it was a body dead! 
It made my cold, hard bosom sore. 


“TI dragged that body forth and 
back— 
O conscience, what a baying hound! 
Nor frozen seas nor frosted ground 
Can throw this bloodhound from his 
track. 


“In farthest Russia I lay down, 
A dying man, at last to rest; 
I felt such load upon my breast 
As seamen feel, who, sinking, drown. 


“That night, all chill and desper- 
ate, 
I sprang up, for I could not rest; 
I tore the two bags from my breast, 
And dashed them in theburninggrate. 


“T then crept back into my bed; 
I tried, I begged, I prayed to sleep; 
But those red, restless coins would 
keep 
Slow dropping, dropping, and blood- 
red. 


“T heard them clink, and clink, and 
clink,— 


@ Song of the South 


They turned, they talked within ¢ 
grate. 

They talked of her; they made 
think 

Of one who still did pray and wait 


“And when the bags burned er 
and black, 
Two coins did start, roll to the floor 
Roll out, roll on, and then roll ba 
As if they needs must journey mor 


“Ah, then I knew nor change 1 
space, 
Nor all the drowning years that roll 
Could hide from me her haunti 
face, 
Nor still that red-tongued, talki 
gold! 


“Again I sprang forth frommybe 
I shook as in an ague fit; 
I clutched that red gold, burning re 
I clutched as if to strangle it. 


“T clutched it up—you hear m 
boy ?— 

I clutched it up with joyful tears! 

I clutched it close with such wild jc 

I had not felt for years and years! 


“Such joy! for I should now r 
trace 

My steps, should see my land, hi 
face; 


Bring back her gold this battle-da; 
And see her, hear her, hear her pray 


“T brought it back—you hear m: 
boy? 
I clutch it, hold it, hold it now; 


@ Song of the South 


d gold, bright gold that giveth joy 
yall, and anywhere or how; 


“That giveth joy to all but me,— 
yall but me, yet soon to all. 

burns my hands, it burns! but she 
all ope my hands and let it fall. 


“Por oh, I have a willing hand 

) give these bags of gold; to see 

er smile as once she smiled on me 

ere in this pleasant warm palm- 
land.”’ 


He ceased, he thrust each hard- 
clenched fist,— 

e threw his gold hard forth again, 

sone impelled by some mad pain 

e would not or could not resist. 


The Creole, scorning, turned away, 
s if he turned from that lost thief,— 
he one who died without belief 
hat dark, dread crucifixion day. 


Ill 


Believe in man nor turn away. 

o! man advances year by year; 

ime bears him upward, and his 
sphere 

if life must broaden day by day. 


Believe in man with large belief; 
‘he garnered grain each harvest- 
‘time 
lath promise, roundness, and full 
prime 
‘or all the empty chaff and sheaf. 


279 


Believe in man with brave belief; 
Truth keeps the bottom of her well; 
And when the thief peeps down, the 

thief 
Peeps back at him perpetual. 


Faint not that this or that man fell; 
For one that falls a thousand rise 
To lift white Progress to the skies: 
Truth keeps the bottom of her well. 


Fear not for man, nor cease to delve 
For cool, sweet truth, with large 
belief. 
Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve, 
Yet one of these turned out a thief. 


IV 


Down through the dark magnolia 
leaves, 
Where climbs the rose of Cherokee 
Against the orange-blossomed tree, 
A loom of morn-light weaves and 
weaves,— 


A loom of morn-light, weaving 
clothes 
From snow-white rose of Cherokee, 
And bridal blooms of orange-tree, 
For fairy folk housed in red rose. 


Down through the mournful myrtle 


crape, 

Thro’ moving moss, thro’ ghostly 
gloom, 

A long, white morn-beam takes a 
shape 


Above a nameless, lowly tomb; 


280 


A long white finger through the 
gloom 
Of grasses gathered round about,— 
As God’s white finger pointing out 
A name upon that nameless tomb. 


V 


Her white face bowed in her black 
hair, 
The maiden prays so still within 
That you might hear a falling pin,— 
Aye, hear her white, unuttered 
prayer. 


The moon has grown disconsolate, 
Has turned her down her walk of 
stars: 
Why, she is shutting up her bars, 
As maidens shut a lover’s gate. 


The moon has grown disconsolate; 


She will no longer watch and wait. 
But two men wait; and two men will 
Wait on till full morn, mute and still. 


Still wait and walk among the trees 
Quite careless if the moon may keep 
Her walk along her starry steep 
Or drown her in the Southern seas. 


They know no moon, or set or rise 
Of sun, or anything to light 
The earth or skies, save her dark eyes, 
This praying, waking, watching night. 


They move among the tombs apart, 
Their eyes turn ever to that door; 
They know the worn walks there by 

heart— 
They turn and walk them o’er and 
o’er. 


A Song of the South 


They are not wide, these lit 
walks 
For dead folk by this crescent tow 
They lie right close when they 
down, 
As if they kept up quiet talks, 


VI 


The two men keep their pat 
apart; 
But more and more begins to stoo} 
The man with gold, as droop a 
droop 
Tall plants with something at th 
heart. 


Now once again, with eager zest, 
He offers gold with silent speech; 
The other will not walk in reach, 
But walks around, as round a pest. 


His dark eyes sweep the sce 
around, 
His young face drinks the fragra: 
ait, . 


His dark eyes journey everywhere, 


The other’s cleave unto the ground 


It is a weary walk for him, 


For oh, he bears such weary load! — 


He does not like that narrow road 
Between the dead—it is so dim: 


It is so dark, that narrow place, 


Where graves lie thick, like yello’ 


leaves: 

Give us the light of Christ an 
grace; 

Give light to garner in the sheaves. 


Q@ Song of the South 


Give light of love; for goldis cold,— 
lye, gold is cruel as a crime; 
t gives no light at such sad time 
\s when man’s feet wax weak and old. 


Aye, gold is heavy, hard, and cold! 
\nd have I said this thing before? 
Vell, I will say it o’er and o’er, 

T were need be said ten thousand 
fold. 


“Give us this day our daily 
bread,’”’— 
yet this of God; then all the rest 
s housed in thine own earnest breast, 
f you but lift an honest head. 


VII 


Oh, I have seen men tall and fair, 
stoop down their manhood with 
disgust,— 
stoop down God’s image to the dust, 
Co get a load of gold to bear: 


_ Have seen men selling day by day 


[he glance of manhood that God | 


gave: 
Yo sell God’s image, as a slave 
Might sell some little pot of clay! 


Behold! here in this green grave- 
yard 
\ man with gold enough to fill 
\ coffin, as a miller’s till; 
And yet his path is hard, so hard! 


His feet keep sinking in the sand, 
\nd now so near an opened grave! 
Te seems to hear the solemn wave 
Jf dread oblivion at hand. 


281 


The sands, they grumble so, it 
seems 
As if he walks some shelving brink; 
He tries to stop, he tries to think, 
He tries to make believe he dreams: 


Why, he was free to leave the 
land,— 
The silver moon was white as dawn; 
Why, he had gold in either hand, 
Had silver ways to walk upon. 


And who should chide, or bid him 
stay? 
Or taunt, or threat, or bid him fly? 
‘The world’s for sale,’”’ I hear men 
say, 
And yet this man had gold to buy. 


Buy what? Buy rest? He could 
not rest! 
Buy gentle sleep? He could not 
sleep, 
Though all these graves were wide 
and deep 
As their wide mouths with the 
Tequest. 


Buy Love, buy faith, buy snow- 
white truth? 
Buy moonlight, sunlight, present, 
past? 
Buy but one brimful cup of youth 
That true souls drink of to the last? 


O God! ’twas pitiful to see 
This miser so forlorn and old! 
O God! how poor a man may be 
With nothing in this world but 
gold! 


282 


VIII 


The broad magnolia’s blooms were 
white; 
Her blooms were large, as if the moon 
Quite lost her way that dreamful 
night, 
And lodged to wait the afternoon. 


Oh, vast white blossoms, breathing 
love! 
White bosom of my lady dead, 
In your white heaven overhead 
I look, and learn to look above. 


IX 
The dew-wet roses wept; their 
eyes 
All dew, their breath as sweet as 
prayer. 
And as they wept, the dead down 
there 


Did feel their tears and hear their 
sighs. 


The grass uprose, as if afraid 
Some stranger foot might press too 
near; 
Its every blade was like a spear, 
Its every spear a living blade. 


The grass above that nameless 
tomb 
Stood all arrayed, as if afraid 
Some weary pilgrim, seeking room 
Andrest, might lay where she was laid. 


x 


’T was morn, and yet it was not 
morn; 


a Song of the South 


'T was morn in heaven, not on earth, 
A star was singing of a birth,— 
Just saying that a day was born. 


The marsh hard by that bound the 
lake,— | 
The great stork sea-lake, Ponchar- 
terete : 
Shut off from sultry Cuban main,— | 
Drew up its legs, as half awake: 


Drew long, thin legs, stork-legs 
that steep | 
In slime where alligators creep,— 
Drew long, green legs that stir the 
grass, 
As when the lost, lorn night winds 
pass. 


Then from the marsh came croak- 
ings low, 
Then louder croaked some sea-marsh 
beast; 
Then, far away against the east, 
God’s rose of morn began to grow. 


From out the marsh against that 
east, : 
A ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; 
With ragged arms, above the wood 
It rose, a God-forsaken beast. 


It seemed so frightened where it 
rose! 
The moss-hung thing, it seemed to 
- wave a 
The worn-out garments of a grave,— — 


To wave and wave its old grave 


clothes. 


Q Song of the South 


Close by, a cow rose up and lowed 
‘rom out a palm-thatched milking- 
shed; 

, black boy on the river road 
‘led sudden, as the night had fled: 


A nude black boy,—a bit of night 
‘hat had been broken off and lost 
‘rom flying night, the time it crossed 
‘he soundless river in its flight. 


_A bit of darkness, following _ 

“he sable night on sable wing,— 

, bit of darkness, dumb with fear, 

Jecause that nameless tomb was 
near. 


_ Then holy bells came pealing out; 

“hen steamboats blew, then horses 
neighed; 

“hen smoke from hamlets round 

about 

rept out, as if no more afraid. 


“hen shrill cocks here, and shrill 
cocks there, 

itretched glossy necks and filled the 
air ;— 

dow many cocks it takes to make 

\ country morning well awake! 


Then many boughs, with many 
birds,— 
Young boughs in green, old boughs in 
gray; 
These birds had very much to say, 
n their soft, sweet, familiar words. 


And all seemed sudden glad; the 
gloom 
*orgot the church, forgot the tomb; 


283 


And yet, like monks with cross and 
bead, 
The myrtles leaned to read and read. 


And oh, the fragrance of the sod! 
And oh, the perfume of the air! 
The sweetness, sweetness every- 
where, 
That rose like incense up to God! 


I like a cow’s breath in sweet 
spring; 
I like the breath of babes new-born; 
A maid’s breath is a pleasant thing,— 
But oh, the breath of sudden morn!— 


Of sudden morn, when every pore 
Of Mother Earth is pulsing fast 
With life, and life seems spilling o’er 
With love, with love too sweet to last: 


Of sudden morn beneath the sun, 
By God’s great river wrapped in gray, 
That for a space forgets to run, 

And hides his face, as if to pray. 


XI 


The black-eyed Creole kept his 
eyes 
Turned to the door, as eyes might 
turn 
To see the holy embers burn 
Some sin away at sacrifice. 


Full dawn! but yet he knew no 
dawn, 
Nor song of bird, nor bird on wing, 
Nor breath of rose, nor anything 
Her fair face lifted not upon. 


284. 


And yet he taller stood with morn; 
His bright eyes, brighter than before, 
Burned fast against that favored 

door, 
His proud lips lifting still with 
scorn,— 


With lofty, silent scorn for one 
Who all night long had plead and 
plead, 
With none to witness but the dead 
How he for gold had been undone. 


O ye who feed a greed for gold 
And barter truth, and trade sweet 
youth 
For cold, hard gold, behold, behold! 
Behold this man! behold this truth! 


Why what is there in all God’s plan 
Of vast creation, high or low, 
By sea or land, by sun or snow, 
So mean, so miserly as man? 


Lo, earth and heaven all let go 
Their garnered riches, year by year! 
The treasures of the trackless snow, 
Ah, has thou seen how very dear? 


The wide earth gives, gives golden 
grain, 
Gives fruits of gold, gives all, gives 
all! 
Hold forth your hand, and these shall 
fall 
In your full palm as free as rain. 


Yea, earth is generous. The trees 
Strip nude as birth-time without fear; 
And their reward is year by year 
To feel their fullness but increase. 


A Song of the South 


The law of Nature is to give, 
To give, to give! and to rejoice 
In giving with a generous voice, 
And so trust God and truly live. 


But see this miser at the last,— 
This man who loved, who worshippec 
gold, 
Who grasped gold with such eagel 
hold, 
He fain must hold forever fast: 


As if to hold what God lets go; 
As if to hold, while all around 
Lets go and drops upon the ground | 
All things as generous as snow. 


Let go your hold! let go or die! 
Let go poor soul! Do not refuse 
Till death comes by and shakes you 

loose, 
And sends you shamed to hell for aye! 


What if the sun should keep his 
gold? 
The rich moon lock her silver up? - 
What if the gold-clad buttercup | 
Became such miser, mean and old? | 


Ah, me! the coffins are so true 
In all accounts, the shrouds so thin 
That down there you might sew and | 
sew, | 
Nor ever sew one pocket in. 


' And all that you can hold of lands 
Down there, below the grass, down | 
there, 
Will only be that little share 
You hold in your two dust-full hands. | 


@ Song of the South 


XII 
“She comes! she comes! The stony 
floor 
peaks out! And now the rusty door 


it last has just one word this day, 
Vith mute, religious lips, to say. 
She comes! she comes! And lo, 
her face 
s upward, radiant, fair as prayer! 
‘o pure here in this holy place, 
Vhere holy peace is everywhere. 


Her upraised face, her face of light 
ind loveliness, from duty done, 
$ like a rising orient sun 
Phat pushes back the brow of night. 


- How brave, how beautiful is truth! 
3ood deeds untold are like to this. 
3ut fairest of all fair things is 

\ pious maiden in her youth: 


A pious maiden as she stands 
lust on the threshold of the years 
That throb and pulse with hopes and 
fears, 
And reaches God her helpless hands. 


How fair is she! How fond is she! 
Her foot upon the threshold there. 
Her breath is as a blossomed tree,— 
This maiden mantled in her hair! 


Her hair, her black abundant hair, 
Where night inhabited, all night 
And all this day, will not take flight, 
But finds content and houses there. 


285 


Her hands are clasped, her two 
small hands: 
They hold the holy book of prayer 
Just as she steps the threshold there, 
Clasped downward where she silent 
stands. 


XITl 


Once more she lifts her lowly face, 
And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes 
Of wonder, and in still surprise 
She looks full forward in her place. 


She looks full forward on the air 
Above the tomb, and yet below 
The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow, 
As looking—looking anywhere. 


She feels—she knows not what she 
feels: 
It is not terror, is not fear. 
But there is something that reveals 
A presence that is near and dear. 


She does not let her eyes fall down, 
They lift against the far profound: 
Against the blue above the town 
Two wide-winged vultures circle 

round. 


Two brown birds swim above the 
sea,— 
Her large eyes swim as dreamily, 
And follow far, and follow high, 
Two circling black specks in the sky. 


One forward step—the closing door 
Creaks out, as frightened or in pain; 
Her eyes are on the ground again— 
Two men are standing close before. 


286 


“My love,” sighs one, “ my life, my 
all!’’ 
Her lifted foot across the sil] 
Sinks down,—and all things are so 
still 
You hear the orange-blossoms fall. 


But fear comes not where duty is, 
And purity is peace and rest; 
Her cross is close upon her breast, 
Her two hands clasp hard hold of this. 


Her two hands clasp cross, book, 
and she 
Is strong in tranquil purity,— 
Aye, strong as Samson when he laid 
His two hands forth and bowed and 
prayed. 


One at her left, one at her right, 
And she betweeen the steps upon,— 
I can but see that Syrian night, 
The women there at early dawn. 


XIV 


The sky is like an opal sea, 
The air is like the breath of kine; 
But oh, her face is white, and she 
Leans faint to see a lifted sign,— 


To see two hands lift up and 
wave,— 
To see a face so white with woe, 
So ghastly, hollow, white as though 
It had that moment left the grave. 


Her sweet face at that ghostly sign, 
Her fair face in her weight of hair, 
Islikea white dove drowning there,— 
A white dove drowned in Tuscan 

Wine. 


A Song of the South 


He tries to stand, to stand erect; 
’T is gold, ’t is gold that holds hi 
down! 
And soul and body both mu 
drown,— j | 
Two millstones tied about his neck. 


Now once again his piteous face 
Is raised to her face reaching there; 
He prays such piteous silent prayer, 
As prays a dying man for grace, 


It is not good to see him strain 
To lift his hands, to gasp, to try 
To speak. His parched lips are 
dry : 
Their sight is as a living pain, - 


I think that rich man down in hel. 
Some like this old man with his 
gold,— | 
To gasp and gasp perpetual, 
Like to this minute I have told. 


XV 


At last the miser cries his pain,— 
A shrill, wild cry, as if a grave 
Just op’d its stony lips and gave : 
One sentence forth, then closed again. 


“'T was twenty years last night, 
last night!” | 
His lips still moved, but not to speak; 
His outstretched hands, so trembling. 
weak, 
Were beggar’s hands in sorry plight. 


His face upturned to hers; his lips 
Kept talking on, but gave no sound; — 
His feet were cloven to the ground, 
Like iron hooks his finger tips. 


Dawn at San Biego 


Aye, twenty years,” 
sighed; 

I promised mother every year, 

hat I would pray for father here, 

s she still prayed the night she 
died: 


she sadly 


“To pray as she prayed, fervently, 
sshe had promised she would pray 
he sad night that he turned away, 
or him, wherever he might be.”’ 


Then she was still; then sudden she 
et fall her eyes, and so outspake, 
sif her very heart would break, 
ler proud lips trembling piteously: 


“And whether he comes soon or 
late 
‘o kneel beside this nameless grave, 
lay God forgive my father’s hate 
s I forgive, as she forgave!”’ 


He saw the stone; he understood, 
Vith that quick knowledge that will 
come 


287 


Most quick when men are made most 
dumb 
With terror that stops still the blood. 


And then a blindness slowly fell 
On soul and body; but his hands 
Held tight his bags, two iron bands, 
As if to bear them into hell. 


He sank upon the nameless stone 
With oh! such sad, such piteous moan 
As never man might seek to know 
From man’s most unforgiving foe. 


He sighed at last, so long, so deep, 
As one heart breaking in one’s 
sleep,— 
One long, last, weary, willing sigh, 
As if it were a grace to die. 


And then his hands, like loosened 
bands 
Hung down, hung down, on either 
side; 
His hands hung down, hung open 
wide: 
Wide empty hung the dead man’s 
hands. 


DAWN AT SAN DIEGO 


My city sits amid her palms; 
he perfume of her twilight breath 
s something as the sacred balms 
“hat bound sweet Jesus after death, 
‘uch soft, warm twilight sense as lies - 
; gainst the gaies of Paradise. 


Such prayerful palms, wide palms 
‘upreacheal 

“Ms sea mist is as incense smoke, 

“on mission walls a sermon preached— 


White lily with a heart of oak. 
And O, this twilight! O the grace 
Of twilight on yon lifted face! 


I love you, twilight,—love with love 
So loyal, loving fond that I 
When folding these worn hands to 
- die, 
Shall pray God lead me not above, 
But leave me, twilight, sad and true, 
To walk this lonesome world with you. 


288 


Yea, God knows I have walked with 
night; 
I have not seen, I have not known 
Such light as beats upon His throne. 
I know I could not bear such light; 
Therefore, I beg, sad sister true, 
To share your shadow-world with you. 


I love you, love you, maid of night, 

Your perfumed breath, your dreamful 
eyes, 

Your holy silences, your sighs 

Of mateless longing; your delight 

When night says, Hang on yon moon’s 
horn 

Your russet gown, and rest till morn. 


The sun is dying; space and room, 
Serenity, vast sense of rest, 
Lie bosomed in the orange west 
Of orient waters. Hear the boom 
Of long, strong billows; wave on 
wave, 
Like funeral guns above a grave. 


Now night folds all; no sign or 
word; 
But still that rocking of the deep— 
Sweet mother, rock the world to sleep: 
Still rock and rock; as I have heard 
Sweet mother gently rock and rock 
The while she folds the little frock. 


Broad mesa, brown, bare moun- 
tains, brown, 
Bowed sky of brown, that erst was 
blue; 
Dark, earth-brown curtains coming 
down— 
Earth-brown, that all hues melt into; 


Dawn at San Diego 


Brown twilight, born of light anc 
shade; 

Of night that came, of light tha 
passed. . 

How like some ica majestic maid — 

That wares not whither way at last 


Now perfumed Night, sad- facec 
and far, 
Walks up the world in somber brown 
Now suddenly a loosened star 
Lets all her golden hair fall down— 
And Night is dead Day’s coffin-lid, 
With stars of gold shot through hi 
OWE Meet 
I hear the chorus, katydid; 
A katydid, and that is all. 


Some star-tipt candles foot anc 
head; 

Some perfumes of the perfumed sea; 
And now above the coffined dead 
Dusk draws great curtains lovingly; 
While far o’er all, so dreamful far, _ 
God’s Southern Cross by faith is seer 
Tipt by one single blazing star, 
With spaces infinite between. | 


Come, love His twilight, the per- 
fume 4 

Of God’s great trailing garment’s 
hem; | 
The sense of rest, the sense of room, 
The garnered goodness of the day, — 
The twelve plucked hours of His tree, 


When all the world has gone its way 


And left perfection quite to me 
And Him who, 
them. 


loving, fashioned 


Dawn at San Diego 


IT know not why that wealth and 

_ pride 

in not my heart or woo my tale. 

only know I know them not; 

only know to cast my lot 

there love walks noiselessly with 
night 

ad patient nature; my delight 

he wild rose of the mountain side, 

he lowly lily of the vale; 


| 


‘To live not asking, just to live; 

o live not begging, just to be; 

breathe God’s presence in the 

dusk 

hat drives out loud, assertive light— 

‘o never ask, but ever give; 

‘o love my noiseless mother, Night; 

fer vast hair moist with smell of 
musk, 

ler breath sweet with eternity. 


I 


A hermit’s path, a mountain’s 
perch, 
\ sandaled monk, a dying man— 
\ far-off, low, adobe church, 
3elow the hermit’s orange-trees 
[hat cap the clouds above the seas, 
30 far, its spire seems but a span. 


A low-voiced dove! The dying 

laa Don 

Put back the cross and sat dark- 
- browed 

And sullen, as a dove flew out 

The bough, and circling round about, 


19 


289 


Was bathed and gathered in a cloud, 
That, like some ship, sailed on and on. 


But let the gray monk tell the tale; 
And tell it just as told to me. 
This Don was chiefest of the vale 
That banks by San Diego’s sea, 
And who so just, so generous, 
As he who now lay dying thus? 


But wrong, such shameless Saxon 

wrong, 

Had crushed his heart, had made him 
hate 

The sight, the very sound of man. 

He loved thelonely wood-dove’s song; 

He loved it as his living mate. 

And lo! the good monk laid a ban 

And penance of continual prayer— 

But list, the living, dying there! 


For now the end was, and he lay 
As day lies banked against the 
night— 
As lies some bark at close of day 
To wait the dew-born breath of night; 
To wait the ebb of tide, to wait 
The swift plunge through the Golden 
Gate: 


The plunge from bay to boundless 

sea— 

From life through narrow straits of 
night, 

From time to bright eternity— 

To everlasting walks of light. 

Some like as when you sudden blow 

Your candle out and turn you so 

To sleep unto the open day: 

And thus the priest did pleading say: 


290 


“You fled my flock, and sought this 
steep 
And stony, star-lit, lonely height, 
Where weird and unnamed creatures 
keep 
To hold strange thought with things 
of night 
Long, long ago. But now at last 
Your life sinks surely to the past. 
Lay hold, lay hold, the cross I bring, 
Where all God’s goodly creatures 
cling. 
“Yea! You are good.  Dark- 
browed and low 
Beneath your shaggy brows you look 
On me, as you would read a book: 
And darker still your dark brows grow 
As I lift up the cross to pray, 
And plead with you to walk its way. 
“Yea, you are good! There is not 
one, 
From Tia Juana to the reach 
And bound of gray Pacific Beach, 
From Coronado’s palm-set isle 
And palm-hung pathways, mile on 
mile, 
But speaks you, Sefior, good and true. 
But oh, my silent, dying son! 
The cross alone can speak for you 
When all is said and all is done. 


“Come! Turn your dim, dark 
eyes to me, 
Have faith and help me plant this 
cross 


Beyond where blackest billows toss, 

As you would plant some pleasant 
tree: 

Some fruitful orange-tree, and know 


Dawn at Dan Diego 


That it shall surely grow and grow 
As your own orange-trees have groy 
And be, as they, your very own. © 


“You smile at last, and pleasant! 
You love your laden orange-trees 
Set high above your silver seas 
With your own honest hand; ea 
tree 

A date, a day, a part, indeed, 

Of your own life, and walk, ai 
creed. 


“You love your steeps, your sta 
set blue: 
You watch yon billows flash, ar 
toss, 
And leap, and curve, in merry rout 
You love to hear them laugh ar 
shout— 
Men say you hear them talk to you 
Men say you sit and look and look, 
As one who reads some holy book— 
My son, come, look upon the cross? 


“Come, see me plant amid you 
trees 
My cross, that you may see and kno 
’'T will surely grow, and grow, an 
grow, 
As grows some trusted little seed; _ 
As grows some secret, small goo 
deed; ) 
The while you gaze upon yer 
Seas : 
Sweet Christ, now let it grow, anc 
bear 
Fair fruit, as your own fruit is fae 


“Aye! ever from the first I knew, 
And marked its flavor, freshness, hue. | 


Dawn at San Miego 


he gold of sunset and the gold 
f morn, in each rich orange rolled. 


“T mind me now, ’t was long since, 
friend, 

Then first I climbed your path alone, 
“savage path of brush and stone, 
nd rattling serpents without end. 


“Yea, years ago, when blood and 
life 

an swift, and your sweet, faithful 

i wite— 

Vhat! tears at last; hot, piteous tears 

‘hat through your bony fingers creep 

‘he while you bend your face, and 

weep 

‘is if your heart of hearts would 

ime Dreak— 

is if these tears were your heart’s 
blood, 

\ pent-up, sudden, bursting flood— 

ok on the cross, for Jesus’ sake.”’ 


II 


_'T was night, and still it seemed not 
night. 

Tet, far down in the cafion deep, 

Where night had housed all day, to 
keep 

Sompanion with the wolf, you 
might 

dave hewn a statue out of night. 

’ 

_ The shrill coyote loosed his tongue 

Deep in the dark arroyo’s bed; 

And bat and owl above his head 

From out their gloomy caverns 
swung: 


2g1 


A swoop of wings, a cat-like call, 
A crackle sharp of chaparral! 


Then sudden, fitful winds sprang 
out, 

And swept the mesa like a broom; 
Wild, saucy winds that sang of room! 
That leapt the cafion with a shout 
From dusty throats, audaciously 
And headlong tore into the sea, 
As tore the swine with lifted snout. 


Some birds came, went, then came 

again 

From out the hermit’s wood-hung 
hill; 

Came swift, and arrow-like, and still, 

As you have seen birds, when the 
rain— 

The great, big, high-born rain, leapt 
white 

And sudden from a cloud like night. 


And then a dove, dear, nun-like 

dove, 

With eyes all tenderness, with eyes 

So loving, longing, full of love, 

That when she reached her slender 
throat 

And sang one low, soft, sweetest note, 

Just one, so faint, so far, so near, 

You could have wept with joy to hear. 


The old man, as if he had slept, 
Raised quick his head, then bowed 
and wept 
For joy, to hear once more her voice. 
With childish joy he did rejoice; 
As one will joy to surely learn 
His dear, dead love is living still; 


292 


As one will joy to know, in turn, 
He, too, is loved with love to kill. 


He put a hand forth, let it fall 
And feebly close; and that was all. 
And then he turned his tearful eyes 
To meet the priest’s, and spake this 

wise :— 


Now mind, I say, not one more 
word 
That livelong night of nights was 
heard 
By monk or man, from dusktill dawn; 
And yet that man spake on and on. 


Why, know you not, soul speaks to 
soul? 
I say the use of words shall pass. 
Words are but fragments of the glass; 
But silence is the perfect whole. 


And thus the old man, bowed and 
wan, 
And broken in his body, spake— 
Spake youthful, ardent, on and on, 
As dear love speaks for dear love’s 
sake. 


“You spake of her, my wife; pe- 
hold! 
Behold my faithful, constant love! 
Nay, nay, you shall not doubt my 
dove, 
Perched there above your cross of 
gold! 


“Yea, you have books, I know, to 
tell 
Of far, fair heaven; but no hell 


Dawn at San Diego 


To her had been so terrible | 
As all sweet heaven, with its gold : 
And jasper gates, and great whi 
throne, | 
Had she been banished hence alone 
“Tsay, not God himself could ken 
Beyond the stars, beneath the deep 
Or ’mid the stars, or ’mid the sea, 
Her soul from my soul one brief day 
But she would find some pretty way 
To come and still companion me. 


“And say, where bide your soul 
good priest? 5 
Lies heaven west, lies heaven east? 
Let us be frank, let us be fair; 
Where is your heaven, good pries' 
where? | 


“Ts there not room, is there no 
place : 

In all those boundless realms of space 
Is there not room in this sweét air, _ 
Room ’mid my trees, room anywhere 
For souls that love us thus so well, | 
And love so well this beauteous world 
But that they must he headlong 
hurled : 
Down, down, to undiscovered hell? , 


‘Good priest, we questioned not 
one word 
Of all the holy things we heard 
Down in your pleasant town of palms 
Long, long ago—sweet chants, swe 
psalms, : a 
Sweet incense, and the solemn rite _ 
Above the dear, believing dead. | 
Nor do I question here tonight | 
One gentle word you may have said. | 
| 


t 


Dawn at Han Diego 


rould not doubt, for one brief hour, 
uur word, your creed, your priestly 
- power, 

ur purity, unselfish zeal, 

it there be fears I scorn to feel! 


“Let those who will, seek realms 
above, 

mote from all that heart can love, 
‘their ignoble dread of hell. 

ve all, good priest, in charity; 

ve heaven to all, if this may be, 

id count it well, and very well. 


“But I—I could not leave this spot 

here she is waiting by my side. 

irgive me, priest; it is not pride; 

yere is no God where she is not! 

“You did not know her well. Her 

creed 

‘as yours; my faith it was the same, 

y faith was fair, my lands were 

broad. 

uw down where yonder palm-trees 
rise 

e two together worshiped God 

‘om childhood. And we grew in 
deed, 

evout in heart as well as name, 

. loved our palm-set paradise. 

“We loved, we loved all things on 
earth, 

owever mean or miserable. 

te knew no thing that had not worth, 

nd learned to know no need of hell. 


“Indeed, good priest, so much, 
indeed, 


le found to do, we saw to love, 


293 


We did not always look above 

As is commanded in your creed, 

But kept in heart one chiefest care, 
To make this fair world still more fair. 


“’T’ was then that meek, pale 
Saxon came; 
With soulless gray and greedy eyes, 
A snake’s eyes, cunning, cold andwise, 
And I—I could not fight, or fly 
His crafty wiles at all; and I1— 
Enough, enough! I signed my name. 


“‘It was not loss of pleasure, place, 
Broad lands, or the serene delight 
Of doing good, that made long night 
O’er all the sunlight of her face. 

But there be little things that feed 

A woman’s sweetness, day by day, 

That strong men miss not, do not 
need, 

But, shorn of all can go their way 

To battle, and but stronger grow, 

As grow great waves that gather so. 


‘‘She missed the music, missed the 


song, 

The pleasant speech of courteous 
men, 

Who came and went, a comely 
throng, 


Before her open window, when 

The sea sang with us, and we two 

Had heartfelt homage, warm and 
true. 


‘“She missed the restfulness, the 
rest 
Of dulcet silence, the delight: 
Of singing silence, when the town 
Put on its twilight robes of brown; 


294 

When twilight wrapped herself in 
night 

And couched against the curtained 
west. 


“But not one murmur, not one 
word 
From her sweet baby lips was heard. 
She only knew I could not bear 
To see sweet San Diego town, 
Her palm-set lanes, her pleasant 
Square, 
Her people passing up and down, 
Without black hate, and deadly hate 
For him who housed within our gate, 
And so, she gently led my feet 
Aside to this high, wild retreat. 


“How pale she grew, how piteous 
pale 
The while I wrought, and ceaseless 
wrought 
To keep my soul from bitter thought, 
And build me here above the vale. 
Ah me! my selfish, Spanish pride! 
Enough of pride, enough of hate, 
Enough of her sad, piteous fate: 
She died: right here she sank and 
died. 


“She died, and with her latest 

breath 

Did promise to return to me, 

As turns a dove unto her tree 

To find her mate at night and rest; 

Died, clinging close against my 
breast; 

Died, saying she would surely rise 

_ So soon as God had loosed her eyes 

From the strange wonderment of 
death. 


Dawn at San Diego 


“How beautiful is death! and hoy 
Surpassing good, and true, and fair 
How just is death, how gently just, 
To lay his sword against the thread 
Of life when life is surely dead : 
And loose the sweet soul from th 

dust! : 
I laid her in my lorn despair | 


Beneath that dove, that orang( 
bough— 
How strange your cross should stan 


just there! | 


‘And then I waited hours, days: 
Those bitter days, they were as year: 
My soul groped through the darkes' 

ways; | 
T scarce could see God’s face for tears 


/ 


“T clutched my knife, and I crep 
down, 
A wolf, to San Diego town. 
On, on, amid my palms once more, © 
Keen knifein hand, I crept that night 
I passed the gate, then fled in fright; | 
Black crape hung fluttered from the 
door! | 
“T climbed back here, with heart 
of stone: 
I heard next morn one sweetest tone; 
Looked up, and lo! there on that 
bough ! 
She perched, as she sits perching now. 


° 


“T heard the bells peal from my 
height, 
Peal pompously, peal piously; 


Dawn at San Diego 


w sable hearse, in plumes of night 
ith not one thought of hate in me. 


“T watched the long train winding 
_ by, 

mournful, melancholy lie— 

sable, solemn, mourning mile— 

ad only pitied him the while. 

yr she, she sang that whole day 
through: 

id-voiced, as if she pitied, too. 


“They said, ‘His work is done, and 
well.’ 
hey laid his body in a tomb 

f massive splendor. It lies there 
a allits stolen pomp and gloom— 
ut list! his soul—his soul is where? 
shell! Inhell! But where is hell? 


“Hear me but this. 


Year after 
year 
he trained my eye, she trained my 
ime ear; 


To book to blind my eyes, or ought 
*o prate of hell, when hell is not. 
‘came to know at last, and well, 
‘uch things as never book can tell. 


“And where was that poor, dismal 
soul 
Ye priests had sent to paradise? 
(heard the long years roll and roll, 
As rolls the sea. My once dimmed 
eyes 
Srew keen as long, sharp shafts of 
light. 
With eager eyes and reaching face 
1 searched the stars night after night; 
That dismal soul was not in space! 


295 


‘‘Meanwhile my green trees grew 
and grew; 
And sad or glad, this much I knew, 
It were no sin to make more fair 
One spot on earth, to toil and share 
With man, or beast, or bird; while 
she 
Still sang her soft, sweet melody. 


“One day, a perfumed day in 

white— 

Such restful, fresh, and friendlike 
day = 

Fair Mexico a mirage lay 

Far-lifted in a sea of light— 

Soft, purple light, so far away. 

I turned yon pleasant pathway down, 

And sauntered leisurely tow’rd town. 


“T heard my dear love call and coo, 
And knew that she was happy, too, 
In her sad, sweet, and patient pain 
Of waiting till I came again. 


“ Aye, I was glad, quite glad at last; 
Not glad as I had been when she 
Walked with me by yon palm-set sea, 
But sadly and serenely glad: 

As though ’t were twilight like, as 
though 

You knew, and yet you did not know 

That sadness, most supremely sad 

Should lay upon you like a pall, 

And would not, could not pass away 

Till you should pass; till perfect day 

Dawns sudden on you, and the call 

Of birds awakens you to morn— 

A babe new-born; a soul new-born. 


“Good priest, what are the birds 
for? Priest, 


296 


Build ye your heaven west or east? 
Above, below, or anywhere? 

I only ask, I only say 

She sits there, waiting for the day, 
The fair, full day to guide me there. 


“What, he? That creature? Ah, 
quite true! 
I wander much, I weary you: 
I beg your pardon, gentle priest. 
Returning up the stone-strewn steep, 
Down in yon jungle, dank and deep, 
Where toads and venomed reptiles 
creep, 
There, there, I saw that hideous 
beast! 


“Aye, there! coiled there beside my 
road, 
Close coiled behind a monstrous toad, 
A huge flat-bellied reptile hid! 
His tongue leapt red as flame; his 
eyes, 
His eyes were burning helis of lies— 
His head was like a coffin’s lid: 


“Saint George! Saint George! I 
gasped for breath. 
The beast, tight coiled, swift, sud- 
den sprang 
High in the air, and, rattling, sang 
His hateful, hissing song of death! 
“My eyes met his. He shrank, he 
fell, 
Fell sullenly and slow. The swell 
Of braided, brassy neck forgot 
Its poise, and every venomed spot 
Lost luster, and the coffin head 
Cowed level with the toad, and lay 


Dawn at Han Diego 


Low, quivering with hate and dread 
The while I kept my upward way. 


“What! Should have killed him 
Nay, good priest. 
I know not what or where’s your hell 
But be it west or be it east, 
His hell is there! and that is well! 


“Nay, do not, do not question me; 
I could not tell you why I know; 
I only know that this is so, 
As sure as God is equity. 


“Good priest, forgive me, and 
good-by, 
The stars slow gather to their fold; 
I see God’s garment hem of gold 
Against the far, faint morning sky. 


“Good, holy priest, your God is 
where? 
You come to me with book and creed; 
I cannot read your book; I read 
Yon boundless, open book of air. 
What time, or way, or place I look, 
I see God in His garden walk; . 
I hear Him through the thunders talk, 
As once He talked, with burning 
tongue, 
To Moses, when the world was young; 
And, priest, what more is in your 
book? 


“Behold! the Holy Grail is found, 
Found in each poppy’s cup of gold; 
And God walks with us as of old. 
Behold! the burning bush still burns 
For man, whichever way he turns; 
And all God’s earth is holy ground. — 


Dawn at Han Diego 297 


' “ And—and—good priest, bend low 

your head, 

The sands are crumbling where I 
tread, 

Beside the shoreless, soundless sea. 

Good priest, you came to pray, you 
said; 

And now, what would you have of 
me?”’ 


The good priest gently raised his 

head, 

Then bowed it low and softly said: 

‘“‘Vour blessing, son, despite the ban.” 

He fell before the dying man; 

And when he raised his face from 
prayer, 

Sweet Dawn, and two sweet doves 
were there. 


ry ut ah a * 1 
i t A 


SONGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN 


(Olive Leaves) 


299 


, Nia gars 


SARTO BNE BH 


Rta flied ae 


——s 
<= 


O.BOYeAT | PEACE 


‘O boy at peace upon the Dela- 

| ware! 

|O brother mine, that fell in battle 

| front 

Of life, so braver, nobler far than 

} 1 

~The wanderer who vexed all gentle- 

| ness, 

Receive this song; I have but this to 
give. 

'Imay not rear the rich man’s ghostly 
stone; 

| But you, through all my follies loving 

| still 


And trusting me... nay, I shall 


not forget. 


! A failing hand in mine, and fading eyes 
- That look’d in mine as from another 
land, 


| 
i 
| 


You said: ‘‘Some gentler things; a 
song for Peace. 

’Mid all your songs for men one song 
for God.” 

And then the dark-brow’d mother 
Death, bent down 

Her face to yours, and you were born 
to Him. 


‘In the desert a fountain 1s springing, 
In the wild waste there still ts a 
tree,” 


Though the many lights dwindle to one | 
light, 


There is help if the heavens have one.” 


“ Change lays not her handupontruth.” 


301 


AT BETHLEHEM 


With incense and myrrh and sweet | Came the Wise of the East, bending 


spices, 
Frankincense and sacredest oil 
In ivory, chased with devices 
Cut quaint and in serpentine coil; 
Heads bared, and held down to the 
bosom; 
Brows massive with wisdom and 
bronzed; 
Beards white as the white May in 
blossom; 
And borne to the breast and 
beyond,— 


lowly 
On staffs, with their garments girt 
round 
With girdles of hair, to the Holy 
Child Christ, in their sandals. The 
sound 
Of song and thanksgiving ascended— 
Deep night! Yet some shepherds afar 
Heard a wail with the worshipping 
blended 
And they then knew the sign of the 
star. 


“LA NOTTE” 


Isit night? And sits night at your 
pillow? 
Sits darkness 
Death? 
Rolls darkness above like a billow, 
As drowning men catch in their 
breath? 


about you like 


Is it night, and deep night of dark 
"errors, 
Of crosses, of pitfalls and bars? 
Then lift up your face from your 
terrors, 
For heaven alone holds the stars! 


Lo! shaggy-beard the 
fastness— 
Lorn, desolate Syrian sod; 
The darkness, the midnight, the vast- 
ness— 
That vast, solemn night bore a 


God! 


shepherds, 


The night brought us God; and the 
Savior 
Lay down in a cradle to rest; 
A sweet cherub Babe in behavior, 
So that all baby-world might be 
blest. 


393 


304 


IN PALESTINE 


O Jebus! thou mother of prophets, 
Of soldiers and heroes of song; 
Let the crescent oppress thee and 
scoff its 
Blind will, let the days do thee 
wrong; 


But to me thou art sacred and 


splendid, 
And to me thou art matchless and 
fair, 
As the tawny sweet twilight, with 
blended 


Sunlight and red stars in her hair. 


Thy fair ships once came from sweet 
Cyprus, 
And fair ships drew in from Cyrene 
With fruits and rich robes and sweet 
spices 
For thee and thine, eminent queen; 


And camels came in with the traces 
Of white desert dust in their hair 
As they kneel’d in the loud market 

places, 
And Arabs with lances were there. 


Tis past, and the Bedouin pillows 
His head where thy battlements fall, 
And thy temples flash gold to the 
billows, 
Never more over turreted wall. 


BEYOND JORDAN 


And they came to Him, mothers of 
Judah, 
Dark eyed and in splendor of hair, 


In Palestine 


’'Tis past, and the green velve 
mosses : 
Have grown by the sea, and noy 
sore : 
Does the far billow mourn for hi 
losses | 


Of lifted white ships to the shore. 


/ 


Let the crescent uprise, let it flasl 
on 
Thy dust in the garden of death | 


Thy chastened and Meeps | 
passion 
Sunk down to the sound of ¢ 
breath; 


Yet you lived like a king on a thront 

and ’ | 

You died like a queen of the south; | 

For you lifted the cup with your owr 
hand 

To your proud and your oaskiontil 

mouth; | 


Like a splendid swift serpent sur: 
rounded | 
With fire and sword, in your side | 
You struck your hot fangs and 
confounded | 
Your foes; you struck deep, and so 
—died. 


Bearing down over shoulders of | 


beauty, | 
And bosoms half hidden, half bare; — 


| 
| they brought Him their babes 
and besought Him 

Half kneeling, with suppliant air, 
‘o bless the brown cherubs they 
| brought Him, 

| With holy hands laid in their hair. 


“hen reaching His hands He said, 


Faith 


395 


Took the brown little babes in the 
holy 
White hands of the Savior of men; 


Held them close to His heart and 
caress’d them, 
Put His face down to theirs as in 
prayer,. 


lowly, Put their hands to His neck, and so 
“Of such is My Kingdom”; and bless’d them 
/ then With baby hands hid in His hair. 
FAITH 
There were whimsical turns of the [ A mantle of night and a marching 
waters, Of storms, and a sounding of seas, 
There were rhythmical talks of the | Of furrows of foam and of arching 
sea, ,— Black billows; a bending of knees; 
There were gather’d the darkest eyed 
daughters The rising of Christ—an entreat- 


Of men, by the deep Galilee. 


A blowirf full sail, and a parting 
From multitudes, living in Him, 

A trembling of lips, and tears starting 
From eyes that look’d downward 


ing— 

Hands reach’d to the seas as He 
saith, 
“Have Faith!” 
repeating, 
“Have Faith! 
Have Faith!” 


And all seas are 


Have Faith! 


HOPE 


| and dim. 
| ¢ 
‘What song is well sung not of 
sorrow? 
What triumph well won without 
pain? 


(What virtue shall be, and not borrow 
Bright luster from many a stain? 


What birth has there been without 


y travail? 
| What battle well won without 


blood? 


20 


What good shall earth see without 
evil 
Ingarner’d as chaff with the good? 


Lo! the cross set in rocks by the 
Roman, 
And nourish’d by blood of the 
Lamb, 
And water’d by tears of the woman, 
Has flourish’d, has spread like a 
palm; 


306 


Has spread in the frosts, and far 
regions 
Of snows in the North, and South 
sands, 
Where never the tramp of his legions 
Was heard, or reach’d forth his red 
hands. 


Be thankful; the price and the pay- 
ment, 


Charity 


The cross, and the parting of raimen 

Are finish’d. The star brought1 

morn. | 

| 

Look starward; stand far and tu 

earthy, 

Free soul’d as a banner unfurl'dil 

Be worthy, O brother, be worthy! 

For a God was the price of q 


The birth, the privations and scorn, world. 
CHARITY 
Her hands were clasped downward | Then the Savior bent down, and th 
and doubled, Savior | 
Her head was held down and In silence wrote on in the sand. 
depress’d, 
Her bosom, like white billows | What wrote He? How fondly on 
troubled, | 


Fell fitful and rose in unrest; 


Her robes were all dust and dis- 
order’d 
Her glory of hair, and her brow, 
Her face, that had lifted and lorded, 
Fell pallid and passionless now. 


She heard not accusers that brought 
her 
In mockery hurried to Him, 
Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought 
her 
With eyes lifted doubtful and dim. 


All crush’d and stone-cast in be- 
havior, 

She stood as a marble would 
stand, 


lingers : 
And questions, what holy commanc 
Fell down from the beautiful fingers 
Of Jesus, like gems in the sand. 
O better the Scian uncherish’d | 
Had died ere a note or device 
Of battle was fashion’d, than perish 'd 
This only line written by Christ. 


He arose and look’d on the daugh- 

ter 

Of Eve, like a delicate flower, : 

And he heard the revilers that 
brought her; 

Men stormy, and strong as a 

tower; | 

| 

And He said, “She has sinn’d: let the 

blameless 


Come forward and cast the first 
stone!”’ 

ut they, they fled shamed and yet 
shameless; 

And she, she stood white and 

alone. 


Tho now shallaccuse and arraign us? 

‘What man shall condemn and 
disown? 

ince Christ has said only the stain- 

less 

Shall cast at his fellows a stone. 


‘or what man can bare us his 


bosom, 
And touch with his forefinger there, 


The Last Supper 


307 
And ‘say, ‘Tis as 
blossom? 

Beware of the staintess, beware! 


snow, as a 


O woman, born first to believe us; 
Yea, also born first to forget; 

Born first to betray and deceive us; 
Yet first to repent and regret! 


O first then in all that is human, 
Yea! first where the Nazarene 
trod, 
O woman! O beautiful woman! 
Be then first in the kingdom of 
God! 


THE LAST SUPPER 


What song sang the twelve with the 


Saviour 
When finish’d the sacrament wine? 
Nere they bow’d and subdued in 
behavior, 
_ Or bold as made bold with a sign? 


What sang they? What sweet song 
of Zion 
With Christ in their midst like a 
crown? 
While here sat Saint Peter, the lion; 
, And there like a lamb, with head 
_ down, 


Sat Saint John, with his silken and 
- raven 

- Rich hair on his shoulders, and 

: eyes 

Lifting up to the faces unshaven 


Like a sensitive child’s in surprise. 


“And when they had sung an hymn they went out unto the Mount of_Olives.’’ —Bible. 


Was the song as strong fishermen 
swinging 
Their nets full of hope to the sea? 
Or low, like the ripple-wave, singing 
Sea-songs on their loved Galilee? 


Were they sad with foreshadow of 
sOrrows, 
Like the birds that sing low when 
the breeze 
Is tip-toe with a tale of tomorrows,— 
Of earthquakes and sinking of 
seas? 


Ah! soft was their song as the waves 
are 
That fall in low musical moans; 
And sad I should say as the winds 
are 
That blow by the white grave- 
stones. 


308 


As a tale that is told, as a vision, 
Forgive and forget; for I say 
That the true shall endure the 
derision 
Of the false till the full of the day; 


II 


Ay, forgive as you would be for- 
given; 
Ay, forget, lest the ill you have 
done 
Be remember’d against you in heaven 
And all the days under the sun. 


Til 


For who shall have bread without 


labor? 
And who shall have rest without 
price? 
And who shall hold war with his 
neighbor 
With promise of peace with the 
Christ? 
IV 
The years may lay hand on fair 
heaven; 
May place and displace the red 
stars; 


May stain them, as blood stains are 
driven 
At sunset in beautiful bars; 


@ Song for Beace 
A SONG FOR PEACE 


V 


May shroud them in black till the 
fret us | 

As clouds with their showers o 
tears; 
May grind us to dust and forget us, 


May the years, O, the pitilel 
years! 


VI 


But the precepts of Christ are be 


yond them; 
The truths by the N azareny 
taught, | 
With the tramp of the ages upor 
them, | 
They endure as though ages wer! 
naught; | 
VII | 


The deserts may drink up E | 
fountains, 
The forests give place to the plain, 
The main may give place to the 
mountains, | 
The mountains return to the main; | 


VIII 


Mutations of worlds and mutations | 
Of suns may take place, but the : 
reign | 

Of Time, and the toils and vexations 
Bequeath them, no, never a stain. | 


IX 


3o forth to the fields as one sow- 
im ing, 
| Sing songs and be glad as you 


To Russia 


309 
xX 
And the sun shall shine sooner or 
later, 
Though the midnight breaks 


ground on the morn, 


g0, 
There are seeds that take root with- | Then appeal you to Christ, the 
out showing, Creator, 
And bear some fruit whether or And to gray bearded Time, His 
no. first born. 
TO RUSSIA 


“Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? ’’—Bible. 


Who tamed your lawless Tartar 
blood? 
What David bearded in her den 
‘The Russian bear in ages when 
‘You strode your black, unbridled 
; stud, 
A skin-clad savage of your steppes? 
‘Why, one who now sits low and 
: weeps, 
Why, one who now wails out to 
: you— 
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew. 
' 
Who girt the thews of your young 
prime 


‘And bound your fierce divided | Your Jew! Your Jew! 


force? 


Why, who but Moses shaped your 
course 

United down the grooves of time? 

Your mightly millions all today 

The hated, homeless Jew obey. 

Who taught all poetry to you? 

The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew. 


Who taught you tender Bible tales 
Of honey-lands, of milk and wine? 
Of happy, peaceful Palestine? 

Of Jordan’s holy harvest vales? 

Who gave the patient Christ? I say 

Who gave your Christian creed? 
Yea, yea, 

Who gave your very God to you? 

Your hated 


Jew! 


TO RACHEL IN RUSSIA 


‘O thou, whose patient, peaceful 


blood 
Paints Sharon’s roses on thy cheek, 


And down thy breasts played hide 


and seek, 


Six thousand years a stainless flood, 

Rise up and set thy sad face hence. 

Rise up and come where Freedom 
waits 

Within these white, wide ocean gates 


{ 
“To bring them unto a good land and a large; unto a land flowing with milk and honey.”’ 
! 
| 


To Rachel 


310 


To give thee God’s inheritance; 

To bind thy wounds in this despair; 

To braid thy long, strong, loosened 
hair. 


O Rachel, 
flood 
Of icy Volga grinds and flows 
Against his banks of blood-red 
snows— 
White banks made red with children’s 
blood— 
Lift up thy head, be comforted; 
For, as thou didst on manna feed, 
When Russia roamed a bear in deed, 
And on her own foul essence fed, 


weeping where the 


in Russia 


So shalt thou flourish as a tree 
When Russ and Cossack shall nc 
be. 


Then come where yellow harvest 

swell; 

Forsake that savage land of snows; 

Forget the brutal Russian’s blows; 

And come where Kings of Conscience 
dwell. 

Oh come, Rebecca to the well! 

The voice of Rachel shall be sweet! 

The Gleaner rest safe at the feet 

Of one who loves her; and the spell 

Of Peace that blesses Paradise 

Shall kiss thy large and lonely eyes. 


SET es ee, ae Ree Wy, Ya nets aay i: eh Mets stp N 
shat AN ME i RS AN 
4 ger tua eer elev tea Ae eh ee 
# ue ie’ 3 e } t F 


. a aur “0 


~~ 


SONGS OF ITALY 


Sir 


SCY TUTTE i} 


CPAADS 


JORAED, 


THE IDEAL AND THE REAL 


And full these truths eternal 
O’er the yearning spirit steal, 
That the real ts the ideal, 
And the tdeal is the real. 


She was damn’d with the dower of 
beauty, she 


‘Had gold in shower by shoulder and 


brow. 


Her feet!—why, her two blessed feet, 


were so small, 
They could nest in this hand. How 
queenly, how tall, 


How gracious, how grand! She was 


We met, soul tosoul. ... 


all to me,— 
My present, my past, my eternity! 
She but lives in my dreams. I be- 
hold her now 


_ By shoreless white waters that flow’d 


like a sea 


| At her feet where I sat; her lips 


pushed out 


In brave, warm welcome of dimple 


and pout! 
‘Twas eons agone. By that river 
that ran 
All fathomless, echoless, limitless, 
on, 


And shoreless, and peopled with 


never a man, 
No land; 


yet I think 


There were willows and lilies that 
lean’d to drink. 

The stars they were seal’d and the 
moons were gone. 

The wide shining circles that girdled 
that world, 

They were distant and dim. And an 
incense curl’d 

In vapory folds from that river that 
ran 

All shoreless, with never the presence 
of man. 


How sensuous the night; how soft 

was the sound 

Of her voice on the night! 
warm was her breath 

In that world that had never yet 
tasted of death 

Or forbidden sweet fruit! ... 
that far profound. 


How 


In 


We were camped on the edges of god- 
land. We 

Were the people of Saturn. The 

- watery fields, 

The wide-wing’d, dolorous birds of 
the sea, 

They acknowledged but us. Our 
brave battle shields 

Were my naked white palms; our food 
it was love. 

Our roof was the fresco of gold belts 
above. 


313 


314 


How turn’d she to me where that 

wide river ran, 

With its lilies and willows and watery 
weeds, 

And heeded as only a true love 
heeds! . . .. 

How tender she was, and how timid 
she was! 

But a black, hoofed beast, with the 
head of a man, 

Stole down where she sat at my side, 
and began 

To puff his tan cheeks, then to play, 
then to pause, 

With his double-reed pipe; then to 
play and to play 

As never played man since the world 
began, 

And never shall play till the judgment 
day. 


How he puft’d! how he play’d! 

Then down the dim shore, 

This half-devil man, all hairy and 
black, 

Did dance with his hoofs in the sand, 
laughing back 

As his song died away.... 
turned never more 

Unto me after that. She arose and 
she pass’d 

Right on from my sight. 
followed as fast 

As true love can follow. But ever 


She 


Then I 


before 

Like a spirit she fled. How vain and 
how far 

Did I follow my beauty, red belt or 
white star! 


Through foamy white sea, unto fruit- 
laden shore. 


The Jdeal and the Real 


How long did I follow! My pent 

soul of fire 

It did feed on itself. I fasted, I 
cried; 

Was tempted by many. Yet still I 
denied 

The touch of all things, and kept my 
desire ... 

I stood by the lion of St. Mark in that 
hour 


Of Venice when gold of the sunset is 
roll’d 

From cloud to cathedral, from turret 
to tower, 

In matchless, magnificent garments 
of gold; 

Then I knew she was near; yet I had 
not known 

Her form or her face since the stars 
were sown. 


We two had been parted—God 

pity us!—when 

This world was unnamed and all 
heaven was dim; 

We two had been parted far back on 
the rim 

And the outermost border of heaven’s 
red bars; 

We two had been parted ere the 
meeting of men, 

Or God had set compass on spaces as 
yet; 

We two had been parted ere God had 
once set 

His finger to spinning the purple with 
stars,— 

And now at the last in the sea and 
fret 

Of the sun of Venice, we two had 
met. 


&. 


The Joeal and the Real 


Where the lion of Venice, with 
| brows a-frown, 
With tossed mane tumbled, and teeth 


in air, 
Looks out in his watch o’er the watery 
town, 
With paw half lifted, with claw half 
bare, 
| By the blue Adriatic, at her bath in 
the sea,— 
Isaw her. I knew her, but she knew 
not me. 
Thad found her at last! Why I, 1 
| had sail’d 
The antipodes through, had sought, 
and had hail’d 


All flags; I had climbed where the 
| storm clouds curl’d 

| And call’d o’er the awful arch’d dome 
| of the world. 


I saw her one moment, then fell 

back abash’d, 

And fill’d to the throat... . 

_ I turn’d me once more, 

_ Thanking God in my soul, while the 

| level sun flashed 

Happy halos about her.... 
breast!— why, her breast 

Was white as twin pillows that lure 
you to rest. 

Her sloping limbs moved like to 
melodies told, 

As she rose from the sea, and threw 
back the gold . 

Of her glorious hair, and set face to 
the shore. . . 

I knew her! I knew her, though we 
had not met 

Since the red stars sang to the sun’s 
first set! 


Then 


Her 


OO OEE 


315 

How long I had sought her! I had 
hunger’d, nor ate 

Of any sweet fruits. 
not one 

Of all the fair glories grown under the 
sun. 

I had sought only her, believing that 
she 

Had come upon earth, and stood 
waiting for me 

Somewhere by my way. But the 
pathways of Fate 

They had led otherwhere; the round 
world round, 

The far North seas and the near 
profound 

Had fail’d me for aye. 
by that sea 

Where she bathed in her beauty, .. . 
God, I and she! 


1 had followed 


Now I stood 


I spake not, but caught in my 

breath; I did raise 

My face to fair heaven to give God 
praise 

That at last ere the ending of Time, 
we had met, 

Had touched upon earth at the same 
sweet place. ... 

Yea, we never had met since creation 
at all; 

Never, since ages ere Adam’s fall, 

Had we two met in that hunger and 
fret 

Where two should be one; but had 
wander’d through space; 

Through space and through spheres, 
as some bird that hard fate 

Gives a thousand glad Springs but 
never one mate. 


316 


Was it well with my love? Was 

she true? Was she brave 

With virtue’s own valor? Was she 
waiting for me? 

Oh, how fared my love? Had she 
home? Had she bread? 

Had she known but the touch of the 
warm-temper’d wave? 

Was she born to this world with a 
crown on her head, 

Or born, like myself, but a dreamer 
instead? ... 

So long it had been! 
the sea— 

That wrinkled and surly, old, time- 
temper’d slave— 

Had been born, had his revels, grown 
wrinkled and hoar 

Since I last saw my love on that 
uttermost shore. 


Solong! Why, 


Oh, how fared my love? Once I 
lifted my face, 

And I shook back my hair and look’d 
out on the sea; 

I press’d my hot palms as I stood in 
my place, 

And I cried, ‘‘Oh, I come like a king 
to your side 

Though all hell intervene!” ... 
‘Hist! she may be a bride, 

A mother at peace, with sweet babes 
at her knee! 

A babe at her breast and a spouse at 
her side!— 

Had 1 wander’d too long, and had 
Destiny 

Sat mortal between us?” 
my face 

In my hands, and I moan’d as I stood 
in my place. 


I buried 


The Poeal and the Real 


’Twas her year to be young. She 

was tall, she was fair— 

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps 
over there? 

‘Twas her year to be young. She 
was queenly and tall; 

And I felt she was true, as I lifted my 
face 

And saw her press down her rich robe 
to its place, 

With a hand white and small as a 
babe’s with a doll. 

And her feet!—why, her feet in the 
white shining sand 

Were so small, ’twas a wonder the 
maiden could stand. 

Then she push’d back her hair with a 
round hand that shone 

And flash’d in the light with a white 
starry stone. 


Then my love she is rich! 

she is fair! 

Is she pure as the snow on the Alps 
over there? 

She is gorgeous with wealth! 
‘Thank God, she has bread,” 

I said to myself. Then I humbled 
my head . 

In gratitude deep. Then I ques- 
tion’d me where 

Was her palace, her parents? What 
name did she bear? 

What mortal on earth came nearest 
her heart? 

Who touch’d the small hand till it 
thrilled to a smart? 

'Twas her year to be young. She 
was rich, she was fair— 

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps 
over there? 


My love 


The Pdeal and the Real 


- Then she loosed her rich robe that 
| was blue like the sea, 
And silken and soft as a baby’s new 
born. 
And my heart it leap’d light as the 
| sunlight at morn 
At the sight of my love in her proud 
: purity, 
As she rose like a Naiad half-robed 
| from the sea. 

Then careless and calm as an empress 
can be 
‘She loosed and let fall all the rai- 
: ment of blue, 
_Asshe drew a white robe in a melody 
Of moving white limbs, while between 
the two, 
‘Like a rift in a cloud, shone her fair 
| presence through. 


Soon she turn’d, reach’d a hand; 
: then a tall gondolier 
Who had lean’d on his oar, like a long 
lifted spear 
2 Shot sudden and swift and all silently, 
And drew to her side as she turn’d 
from the tide. 
It was odd, such a thing, and I 
| counted it queer 
That a princess like this, whether vir- 
| gin or bride, 
| Should abide thus apart as she bathed 
in the sea; 
. And I chafed and I chafed, and so 
unsatisfied, 

That I flutter’d the doves that were 

perch’d close about, 

_ As I strode up and down in dismay 
and in doubt. 


Swift she stept in the boat on the 
borders of night 


317 


As an angel might step on that far 
wonder land 

Of eternal sweet life, which men mis- 
name Death. 

Quick I called me a craft, and I 
caught at my breath 

As she sat in the boat, and her white 
baby hand 

Held vestments of gold to her throat, 
snowy white. 

Then her gondola shot,—shot sharp 
for the shore: 

There was never the sound of a song 
or of oar, 

But the doves hurried home in white 
clouds to Saint Mark, 

Where the brass horses plunge their 
high manes in the dark. 


Then I cried: ‘Follow fast! 
Follow fast! Follow fast! 
Aye! thrice double fare, if you follow 
her true 


To her own palace door!’’ There 
was plashing of oar 
And rattle of rowlock.... I sat 


peering through, 

Looking far in the dark, peering out 
as we passed 

With my soul all alert, bending down, 
leaning low. 

But only the oaths of the fisherman’s 
crew 

When we jostled them sharp as we 
sudden shot through 

The watery town. Then a deep, dis- 
tant roar— 

The rattle of rowlock; the rush of the 
oar. 


The rattle of rowlock, the rush of 
the sea... 


318 


Swift wind like a sword at the throat 
of us all! 

I lifted my face, and far, fitfully 

The heavens breathed lightning; did 
lift and let fall 

As if angels were parting God’s cur- 


tains. Then deep 
And indolent-like, and as if half 
asleep, 


As if half made angry to move at 
all, 

The thunder moved. 
me. 

It stood like an avalanche poised on a 
hill, 

I saw its black brows. 
stand still. 


It confronted 


I heard it 


The troubled sea throbb’d as if 

rack’d with pain. 

Then the black clouds arose and 
suddenly rode, 

As a fiery, fierce stallion that knows 
no rein 

Right into the town. 
thunder strode 

As a giant striding from star to red 


Then the 


star, 

Then turn’d upon earth and franti- 
cally came, 

Shaking the hollow heaven. And 
far 

And near red lightning in ribbon and 
skein 

Did seam and furrow the cloud with 
flame, 

And write on black heaven Jehovah’s 
name. 


Then lightnings came weaving like 
shuttlecocks, 


The Hdeal and the Real 


Weaving red robes of black clouds for 
death. 

And frightened doves fluttered them 
home in flocks, 

And mantled men hied them with 
gather’d breath. 

Black gondolas scattered as never 
before, 

And drew like crocodiles up on the 
shore; 


And vessels at sea stood further at 


sea, 
And seamen haul’d with a bended 
knee, 
And canvas came down to left and to 
right, 


Till ships stood stripp’d as if stripp’d 


for fight! 


Then an oath. Then a prayer. 

Then a gust, with rents 

Through the yellow-sail’d fishers. 
Then suddenly 

Came sharp fork’d fire! 
thunder fell 

Like the great first gun. 
there was rout 

Of ships like the breaking of regi- 
ments, 


Then again 


And shouts as if hurled from an upper 


hell. 


Then tempest! 

about, 

Then shot us ahead through the hills 
of the sea 

As a great steel arrow shot shoreward 
in wars— 

Then the storm split open till I saw 
the blown stars. 


Ah, then 


It lifted, it spun us" 


the storm! through the town! 
She was gone! She was lost in that 
wilderness 

Of leprous white 
Black distress! 
[stood in my gondola. All up and all 
| down 

We pushed through the surge of the 
salt-flood street 
Above and below... . 
the beat 

Of the sea’s sad heart.... I 
leaned, listened; Isat... 
’Twas only the water-rat; nothing but 
that; 

Not even the sea-bird screaming 
distress, 

As she lost her way in that wilder- 
ness. 


palaces. . 


’'Twas only 


| I listen’d all night. I caught at 

. each sound; 

Iclutch’d and I caught as a man that 
drown’d— 

Only the sullen, low growl of the 
sea 

Far out the flood-street at the edge of 

the ships; 

Only the billow slow licking his 

lips, 

A dog that lay crouching there watch- 
ing for me,— 

Growling and showing white teeth all 
the night; 


Only a dog, and as ready to bite; 
Only the waves with their salt-flood 
tears 

Fretting white stones of a thousand 
| years. 


The HJdeal and the Real 


On! on! through the foam! through | 


319 


And then a white dome in the lofti- 
ness 
Of cornice and cross and of glittering 
spire 
That thrust to heaven and held the 
fire 


Of the thunder still; the bird’s 
distress 

As he struck his wings in that wilder- 
ness, 


On marbles that speak, and thrill, 
and inspire,— 

The night below and the night 
above; 

The water-rat building, the sea-lost 


dove; 

That one lost, dolorous, lone bird’s 
call, 

The water-rat building,—but that 
was all. 


Silently, slowly, still up and still 

down, 

We row’d and we row’d for many an 
hour, 

By beetling palace and toppling 
tower, 

In the darks and the deeps of the 
watery town. 

Only the water-rat building by 
stealth, 

Only the lone bird astray in his 
flight 

That struck white wings in the clouds 


of night, 

On spires that sprang from Queen 
Adria’s wealth; 

Only one sea dove, one lost white 
dove: 

The blackness below, the blackness 
above! 


320 


Then, pushing the darkness from 
pillar to post, 
The morning came sullen and gray 


like a ghost 

Slow up the canal. Ilean’d from the 
prow, 

And listen’d. Not even that dove in 
distress 

Crying its way through the wilder- 
ness; 

Not even the stealthy old water-rat 
now, 

Only the bell in the fisherman’s 
tower, 

Slow tolling at sea and telling the 
hour, 

To kneel to their sweet Santa 
Barbara 


For tawny fishers at sea, and to pray. 


High over my head, carved cornice, 

quaint spire. 

And ancient built palaces Iknock’d 
their gray brows 

Together and frown’d. Then slow- 
creeping scows 

Scraped the walls on each side. 
Above me the fire 

Of a sudden-born morning came 
flaming in bars; 

While up through the chasm I could 
count the stars. 

Oh, pity! Such ruin! 
smell of of death 

Crept up the canal: I could scarce 
take my breath! 

’Twas the fit place for pirates, for 
women who keep 

Contagion of body and soul where 
they sleep. . .. 


The dank 


Che Hdeal and the Real 


God’s pity! A white hand noy 

beckoned me 

From an old mouldy door, almost i 
my reach. 

I sprang to the sill as one wrecked t 
a beach; 

I sprang with wide arms: it was she 
It was she! ... 

And in such a damn’d place! 
what was her trade? 

To think I had follow’d so faithful, se 
far 

From eternity’s brink, from star te 
white star, 

To find her, to find her, nor wife no1 
sweet maid! 

To find her a shameless poor creature 
of shame, 

A nameless, lost body, men hardly 
dared name. 


Anc 


All alone in her shame, on that 

damp dismal floor 

She stood to entice me... J 
bow’d me before 

All-conquering beauty. I call’d her 
my Queen! 

I told her my love as I proudly had 
told 

My love had I found her as pure as 


pure gold. 

I reach’d her my hands, as fearless, as 
clean, | 

As man fronting cannon. I cried, 
“‘Hasten forth 

To the sun! There are lands to the 


south, to the north, 
Anywhere where you will. 
shame from your brow; 
Come with me, for ever; and come 
with me now!” 


Dash the 


“Why, I’d have turn’d pirate for her, 
_ would have seen 

hips burn’d from the seas, like to 
stubble from field. 


Jould I turn from her now? Why 
| should I now yield, 
When she needed me most? Had I 


found her a queen, 

And beloved by the world,—why, 
what had I done? 

‘had woo’d, and had woo’d, and had 

 woo’d till I won! 

Phen, if I hadloved her with gold and 

fair fame, 

Would not I now love her, and love 

| her the same? 


My soul hath a pride. I would tear 
out my heart 

And cast it to dogs, could it play a 

dog’s part! 


“Don’t you know me, my bride of 

the wide world of yore? 

Why, don’t you remember the white 

: milky-way 

Of stars, that we traversed the eons 
before? . 

We were counting the colors, we were 

| naming the seas 

Of the vaster ones. 

| the trees 

‘That swayed in the cloudy white 
heavens, and bore 

‘Bright crystals of sweets, and the 

~ sweet manna-dew? 

Why, you smile as you weep, you 
remember, and you, 

You know me! You know me! 

i You know me! Yea, 

You know me as if ’twere but yester- 
day! 


2t 


You remember 


The Pdeal and the Real 


321 


I told her all things. Her brow 
took a frown; 

Her grand Titan beauty, so tall, so 
serene, 

The one perfect woman, mine own 
idol queen— 

Her proud swelling bosom, it broke 
up and down 

As she spake, and she shook in her 
soul as she said, 

With her small hands held to her bent 
aching head: 

“Go. back to the world! Go back, 
and alone 

Till kind Death comes and makes 
white as his own.” 


I said: “I will wait! I will wait in 
the pass 

Of death, until Time he shall break 
his glass.” 


Then I cried, ‘Yea, here where the 

gods did love, 

Where the white Europa was won,— 
she rode 

Her milk-white bull through these 
same warm seas,— 

Yea, here in the land where huge 
Hercules, 

With the lion’s heart and the heart 
of the dove, 

Did walk in his naked great strength, 
and strode 

In the sensuous air with his lion’s 
skin 

Flapping and fretting his knotted 
thews; 

Where Theseus did wander, 
Jason cruise,— 

Yea, here let the life of all lives 
begin. 


and 


322 


“Yea! Here where the Orient 
balms breathe life, 
Where heaven is kindest, where all 


God’s blue 

Seems a great gate open’d to welcome 
you, 

Come, rise and go forth, my empress, 
my wife.” 

Then spake her great soul, so grander 
far 

Than I had believed on that outer- 
most star; 

And she put by her tears, and calmly 
she said, 

With hands still held to her bended 
head: 

“T will go through the doors of death 
and wait 

For you on the innermost side death’s 
gate. 


“Thank God that this life is but a 


day’s span, 

But a wayside inn for weary, worn 
man— 

A night and a day; and, tomorrow, 
the spell 

Of darkness is broken. N ow, darling, 
farewell!” 

I caught at her robe as one ready to 
die— 

“Nay, touch not the hem of my robe 
—it is red 

With sins that your cruel sex heap’d 
on my head! 


Now turn you, yes, turn! 
remember how I 

Wait weeping, in sackcloth, the while 
I wait 


But 


Che Hdeal and the Real 


Inside death’s door, and watch at 1 
gate.” 


I cried yet again, how I cried, h 

I cried, 

Reaching face, reaching hands as 
drowning man might. 

She drew herself back, put my t 
hands aside, 

Half turned as she spoke, as o 
turned to the night: 

Speaking low, speaking soft as a wi 
through the wall 

Of a ruin where mold and night ms 
ters all; 


“T shall live my day, live patie 

on through 

The life that man hath compelled n 
to, 

Then turn to my mother, swe 
earth, and pray 

She keep me pure to the Judgmer 
Day! 

I shall sit and wait as you used 1 
do, 

Will wait the next life, through tt 
whole life through. 

I shall sit all alone, I shall wa 
alway; 

I shall wait inside of the gate fc 
you, 

Waiting, and counting the days as 
wait; 

Yea, wait as that beggar that sat 5 
the gate 

Of Jerusalem, waiting the Judgmen 
Day.” 


O terrible lion of tame Saint Mark! 
‘amed old lion with the tumbled mane 
Tossed to the clouds and lost in the 
| dark, 

Vith teeth in the air and tatl-whipp'd 
i= back, 

Yoot on the Bible as if thy track 

Jed thee the lord of the desert again, — 
‘ay, what of thy watch o'er the watery 
, town? 

Jay, what of the worlds walking up and 
| down? 


O silent old monarch that tops Saint 
_ Mark, 

That sat thy throne for a thousand 
years, 

That lorded the deep, that defied all 
| men,— 

Lo! I see visions at sea in the dark; 

And I see something that shines ltke 
tears, 

And I hear something that sounds like 
. sighs, 

And I hear something that seems as 
| when 

| A great soul suffers and sinks and dies. 


The high-born, beautiful snow 
: came down, 
Silent and soft as the terrible feet 


Of time on the mosses of ruins. 
I Sweet 
Was the Christmas time in the watery 
_ town. | 
Twas full flood carnival swell’d the 
sea 


Of Venice that night, and canal and 
quay 


| 


A Wove of St. Mark 
A DOVE OF ST. MARK 


323 


Were alive with humanity. Man and 
maid, 

Glad in mad revel and masquerade, 

Moved through the feathery snow in 
the night, 

And shook black locks as they 
laugh’d outright. 


From Santa Maggiore, and to and 

fro, 

And ugly and black as if devils cast 
out, 

Black streaks through the night of 
such soft, white snow, 

The steel-prow’d gondolas paddled 
about; 

There was only the sound of the long 
oars dip, 

As the low moon sail’d up the sea like 
a ship 

In a misty morn. 
rose, 

Rose veil’d and vast, through the 
feathery snows, 

As a minstrel stept silent and sad 
from his boat, 

His worn cloak clutched in his hand 
to his throat. 


High the low moon 


Low under the lion that guards 
St. Mark, 
Down under wide wings on the edge 
of the sea 
In the dim of the lamps, on the rim of 
the dark, 
Aloneand sad in the salt-flood town, 
Silent and sad and all sullenly, 
He sat by the column where the 
* crocodile 


324 


Keeps watch o’er the wave, far mile 
upon mile. ... 

Like a signal light through the night 
let down, 

Then a far star fell through the dim 
profound— 

A jewel that slipp’d God’s hand to the 
ground. 


The storm had blown over! 

up and then down, 

Alone and in couples, sweet women 
did pass, 

Silent and dreamy, as if seen in a 
glass, 

Half mask’d to the eyes, in their 
Adrian town. 

Such women! It breaks one’s heart 
to think. 

Water! and never one drop to drink! 

What types of Titian! What glory of 
hair! 

How tall as the sisters of Saul! How 
fair! 

Sweet flowers 
blossoming, 

As if ’twere in Eden, and in Eden’s 
spring. 


Now 


of flesh, and all 


“They are talking aloud with 

eloquent eyes, 

Yet passing me by with never one 
word. 

O pouting sweet lips, do you know 
there are lies 

That are told with the eyes, and never 
once heard 

Above a heart’s beat when the soul is 
stirr’d? 

It is time to fly home, O doves of St. 
Mark! 


A Dove of St. Mark 


Take boughs of the olive; bear the 
to your ark, 

And rest and be glad, for the seas a 
the skies 

Of Venice are fair... . 
wouldn’t go home? 

What! drifting, and drifting as t 
soil’d sea-foam? 


Wh: 


“And who then are you? Yo 

masked and so fair? 

Your half seen face is a rose ft 
blown, 

Down under your black and abu: 
dant hair? ... 

A child of the street, and unloved ar 
alone! 

Unloved; and alone? ... There - 
something then 

Between us two that is not ur 
likely ins”: . 

The strength and the purposes ¢ 
men 

Fall broken idols. 
strike 

With high-born zeal and with prow 
intent. 

Yet let life turn on some acci 
dentin 


We aim an 


“Nay, I’ll not preach. Time’: 

lessons pass 

Like twilight’s swallows. They chirg 
in their flight, 

And who takes heed of the wasting 
glass? 

Night follows day, and day follows 
night, 

And no thing rises on earth but to 
fall 


Like leaves, with their lessons most 

sad and fit. 

{They are spread like a volume each 
year to all; 

Yet menor women learn naught of it, 

Or after it all but a weariness 

Of soul and body and untold distress. 


“Vea, sit, lorn child, by my side, 


and we, 

We will talk of the world. Nay, let 
my hand 

Fall kindly to yours, and so, let your 
face 


Fall fair to my shoulder, and you shall 
be 
'My dream of sweet Italy. Here in 


| this place, 
! Alone in the crowds of this old care- 
less land, 
i Tshall shelter your form till the morn 
and then— 
| Why, I shall return to the world and 
to men, 
And you, not stain’d for one strange, 
kind word 
And my three last francs, for a lorn 
night bird. 


‘Rear nothing from me, nay, never 
| once fear. 

The day, my darling, comes after the 
night. 

) The nights they were made to show 
| the light 

Of the stars in heaven, though the 
' storms be near.... 

Do you see that figure of Fortune up 
there, 

That tops the Dogana with toe 
ie 6a-tip 


Q@ Bove of St. Mark 


325 
Of the great gold ball? Her scroll 
is a-trip 
To the turning winds. She is light as 
the air. 


Her foot is set upon plenty’s horn, 
Her fair face set to the coming 
morn. 


“Well, trust we to Fortune.... 
Bread on the wave 
Turns ever ashore to the hand that 


gave. 
What am I? A poet—a lover of 
all 
That is lovely to see. Nay, naught 
shall befall. .). . 
Yes, I am a failure. I plot and I 
plan, 
Give splendid advice to my fellow- 
man, 
Yet ever fall short of achievement. 
Ah me! 
In my lorn life’s early, sad after- 
noon, 
Say, what have I left but arhyme ora 
rune? 
An empty frail hand for some soul at 
sea, 
Some fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to 
choose, 
That ’twere sin to touch, and—sin to 
refuse? 
“What! I go drifting with you, 


girl, to-night? 
To sit at your side and to call you 


love? 

Well, that were a fancy! To feed a 
dove, 

A poor soil’d dove of this dear Saint 
Mark, 


326 

Too frighten’d to rest and too weary 
TOntipht Ws 

Aye, just three francs, my fortune. 
There! He 

Who feeds the sparrows for this will 
feed me. 

Now here ’neath the lion, alone in the 
dark, 

And side by side let us sit, poor 
dear, 

Breathing the beauty as an 
atmosphere. ... 


“We will talk of your loves, I write 

tales of love . 

What! Cannot read? Why, 
never heard then 

Of your Desdemona, nor the daring 
men 

Who died for her love? 
white dove, 

There’s a story of Shylock would 
drive you wild. 

What! Never have heard of these 
stories, my child? 

Of Tasso, of Petrarch? Not the 
Bridge of Sighs? 

Not the tale of Ferrara? Not the 
thousand whys 

That your Venice was ever adored 
above 

All other fair lands for her stories of 
love? 


you 


My poor 


‘‘What then about Shylock? T’was 
gold. Yes—dead. 


The lady? ’Twas love. ... Why 
yes; she too 
Is dead. And Byron? ’Twas fame. 


Ah, true... 


q Bove of St. Mark 


Tasso and Petrarch? All died, jt 
the same. . 

Yea, so endeth all, as you truly ha 
said, 

And you, poor girl, are too wise; a1 
you, 

Too sudden and swift in your har 
ugly youth, 

Have stumbled face fronting ; 
obstinate truth. 

For whether for love, for gold, or f 
fame, 

They but lived their day, and thi 
died the same. 


But let’s talk not of death? ( 

death or the life 

That comes after death? 
yond your reach, 

And this too much thought has 
sense of strife... . 

Ah, true; I promised you not 1 
preach, 52), 

My maid of Venice, or maid w 
made, 

Hold close your few francs and be nc 
afraid. 

What! Say you are hungry? Wel 
let us dine 

Till the near morn comes on the silve 
shine 

Of the lamp-lit sea. At the dawn < 
day, 

My sad child-woman, you can g 
your way. 


"Tis BG 


“What! You have a palace? 
know your town; 
Know every nook of it, left an 
right, 


i rr ae a 


swellas yourself. Why, far up and 
down 

our salt flood streets, lo, many a 
night 


‘have row’d and have roved in my 
lorn despair 
if love upon earth, and I know well 


there 

s no such palace. What! and you 

i» dare 

fo look in my face and to lie out- 

lj right, 

‘To lift your face, and to frown me 
down? 

Phere is no such palace in that part of 
the town! 

"You would woo me away to your 

_ rickety boat! 

You would pick my pockets! You 
would cut my throat, 


With help of your pirates! Then 

. throw me out 

‘Loaded with stones to sink me 

| down, 

‘Down into the filth and the dregs of 
your town! 

Why, that is your damnable aim, no 
doubt! 

‘And, my plaintive voiced child, you 

seem too fair, 

‘Too fair, for even a thought like 

that; 

‘Too fair for ever such sin to dare— 

Ay, even the tempter to whisper 
at. 


“Now, there is sucha thingas being 
true, 
True, evenin villainy. Listen to me: 
Black-skinn’d women and low-brow'd 
‘men, 


—— 


A Pove of St. Mark 


327 


And desperate robbers and thieves; 
and then, 

Why, there are the pirates! .. . 
pirates reform’d— 

Pirates reform’d and unreform’d; 

Pirates for me, girl, friends for you,— 


Ay, 


And these are your neighbors. And 
sO you see 
That I know your town, your neigh- 
borsyand I— 
Well, pardon me, dear—but I know 
you lie. 
“Tut, tut, my beauty! What 


trickery now? 

Why, tears through your hair on my 
hand like rain! 

Come! look in my face: laugh, lie 
again 


With your wonderful eyes. Lift up 
your brow, 

Laugh in the face of the world, and 
lie! 

Now, come! This lying is no new 
thing. 

The wearers of laces know well how 
to lie, 


As well, ay, better, than you or Ye 

But they lie for fortune, for fame: 
instead, 

You, child of the street, only lie for 
your bread. 


‘Some sounds blow in from the 

distant land. 

The bells strike sharp, and as out of 
tune, 

Some sudden, short notes. 
east and afar, 

And up from the sea, there is lifting 
a star 


To the 


328 

As large, my beautiful child, and as 
white 

And as lovely to see as some lady’s 
white hand. 

The people have melted away with 
the night, 

And not one gondola frets the 
lagoon. 


See! Away to the mountain, the 
face of morn. 

Hear! Away to the sea—’tis the 
fisherman’s horn. 


‘’Tis morn in Venice! 
adieu! 
Arise, sad sister, and go your way; 
And as for myself, why, much like 


My child, 


you, 

I shall sell the story to who will 
pay 

And dares to reckon it true and 
meet. 

Yea, each of us traders, poor child of 
pain; 

For each must barter for bread to 
eat 

In a world of trade and an age of 
gain; 

With just this difference, waif of the 
street, 


You sell your body, I sell my brain. 


‘Poor lost little vessel, with never 

a keel. 

Saint Marks, what a wreck! 
here you reel, 

With never a soul to advise or to 
care; 

All cover’d with sin to the brows and 
hair, 

You lie like a seaweed, well a-strand; 


Lo, 


q Dove of St. Mark 


Blown like the sea-kelp hard on t 
shale, 

A half-drown’d body, with never 
hand 

Reach’d out to help where you falt 
and fail: 

Left stranded alone to starve and { 
die, 

Or to sell your body to who ma 
buy. 


“My sister of sin, I will kiss you 


Yea, 

I will fold you, hold you close to m 
breast; 

And here as you rest in your firs 
fair rest, 

As night is push’d back from the fac 
of day 

I will push your heavy, dark heave 
of hair 

Well back from your brow, and kis 
you where 

Your ruffian, bearded, black men oO 
crime 


Have stung you and stain’d you 
thousand time; 

I will call you my sister, sweet child 
and keep 

You close to my heart, lest you wake 
but to weep. 


“IT will tenderly kiss you, and I 

shall not be 

Ashamed, nor yet stain’d in the 
least, sweet dove,— 

I will tenderly kiss, with the kiss of 
Love, 

And of Faith, and of Hope, and of 
Charity. 


Nay, I shall be purer and be better 
then; 


For, child of the street, you, living or 
} dead, 

‘Stain’d to the brows, are purer to 
artis 

Ten thousand times than the world 
| of men, 

Who reach you a hand but to lead you 
: astray,— 


“But the dawn is upon us. There! 
| go your way. 
“And take great courage. Take 
courage and say, 

Of this one Christmas when I am 
away, 
Roving the world and forgetful of 
you, 
| That I found you as white as the snow 
and knew 
You but needed a word to keep you 
P true. 
When you fall weary and so need 
! rest, 
- Then find kind words hidden down in 
your breast; 
And if rough men question you,— 
| why, then say 


That Madonna sent them. Then 

: kneel and pray, 

_ And pray for me, the worse of the 
two: 

> Then God will bless you, sweet child, 

and I 


ie Shall be the better when I come to die. 


“Yea, take great courage, it will be 


as bread; 
Have faith, have faith while this day 
wears through. 


A Bove of St. Mark 


329 


Then rising refresh’d, try virtue 
instead; 

Be stronger and better, poor, pitiful 
dear, 

So prompt with a lie, so prompt with 
a tear, 

For the hand grows stronger as the 
heart grows true... 

Take courage my child, for I promise 
you 

We are judged by our chances of life 
and lot; 

And your poor soul may yet pass 
through 

The eye of the needle, where laces 
shall not. 


‘‘Sad dove of the dust, with tear- 


wet wings, 

Homeless and lone as the dove from 
its ark,— 

Do you reckon yon angel that tops 
St. Mark, 

That tops the tower, that tops the 
town, 

Tf he knew us two, if he knew all 
things, 

Would say, or think, you are worse 
than I? 

Do you reckon yon angel, now look- 
ing down, 

Far down like a star, he hangs so 
high, 

Could tell which one were the worse 
of us two? 


Child of the street—it is not you! 


“Tf we two were dead, and laid 
side by side 
Right here on the pavement, this very 
day, 


330 


Here under the sun-flushed maiden 
sky, 

Where the morn flows in like a rosy 
tide, 

And the sweet Madonna that stands 
in the moon, 

With her crown of stars, just across 
the lagoon, 

Should come and should look upon 
you and I,— 

Do you reckon, my child, that she 
would decide 

As men do decide and as women do 
say, 

That you are so dreadful, and turn 
away? 


“If angels were sent to choose this 

day 

Between us two as we rest here, 

Here side by side in this storied 
place,— 

If angels were sent to choose, I 
say, 

This very moment the best of the 
two, 

You, white with a hunger and stain’d 
with a tear, 


Como 


Or I, the rover the wide world 
through, 

Restless and stormy as any sea,— 

Looking us two right straight in the 
face, 

Child of the street, he would not 
choose rne. 


“The fresh sun is falling on turret 

and tower, 

The far sun is flashing on spire and 
dome, 

The marbles of Venice are bursting to 
flower, 

The marbles of Venice are flower and 
foam: 

Good night and good morn; I must 
heave you now. 

There! bear my kiss on your pale, soft 
brow 

Through earth to heaven: and when 
we shall meet 

Beyond the darkness, poor waif of 
the street, 

Why, then I shall know you, my sad, 
sweet dove; 

Shall claim you, and kiss you, with 
the kiss of love.”’ 


COMO 


The lakes lay bright as bits of 
broken moon 
Just newly set within the cloven 
earth; 
The ripen’d fields drew round a 
golden girth 
Far up the steeps, and glittered in the 
noon; 


And when the sun fell down, from 
leafy shore 

Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the 
oar; 

The stars, as large as lilies, fleck’d 
the blue; 

From out the Alps the moon came 
wheeling through 


‘The rocky pass the great Napoleon 
knew. 


\% A gala night it was,—the season’s 


| prime. 

‘We rode from castled lake to festal 

| town, 

To fair Milan—my friend and I; rode 
down 


By night, where grasses waved in 
rippled rhyme: 

And so, what theme but love at sucha 
time? 

His proud lip curl’d the while with 
silent scorn 

_ At thought of love; and then, as one 
forlorn, 

He sigh’d; then bared -his temples, 
dash’d with gray; 

Then mock’d, as one outworn and 
well blasé. 


A gorgeous tiger lily, flaming 
. rea, 
So full of battle, of the trumpets 
blare, 
Of old-time passion, uprear’d its 
head. 
Igallop’d past. I lean’d. I clutch’d 
it there 
From out the stormy grass. I held 
it high, 
| And cried: ‘Lo! this to-night shall 
deck her hair 


Through all the dance. And mark! 
the man shall die 

Who dares assault, for good or ill 

design, 

_ The citadel where I shall set this 


sign.” 


Como 331 


O, she shone fairer than the 
summer star, 
Or curl’d sweet moon in middle 


destiny; 

More fair than sun-morn climbing up 
the sea, 

Where all the loves of Adriana 
ATOM aleais 

Who loves, who truly loves, will 


stand aloof: 

The noisy tongue makes most un- 
holy proof 

Of shallow passion... . 
while afar 

From out the dance I stood and 
watched my star, 

My tiger lily borne, an oriflamme of 
war. 


All the 


Adown the dance she moved with 

matchless grace. 

The world—my world—moved with 
her. Suddenly 

I question’d whom her cavalier might 
be? 

’'Twas he! His face was leaning to 
her face! 

I clutch’d my blade; I sprang, I 
caught my breath,— 

And so, stood leaning cold and still as 
death. 

And they stood still, She blushed, 
then reach’d and tore 

The lily as she passed, and down the 
floor 

She strew’d its heart like jets of gush- 
ing gore... . 


"Twas he said heads, not hearts 
were made to break; 


332 


He taught her this that night in 
splendid scorn. 

I learn’d too well... . 
was done, ere morn 

We mounted—he and I—but no 


The dance 


more spake. . . 

And this for woman’s love! My lily 
worn 

In her dark hair in pride, to then be 
torn 


And trampled on, for this bold 
stranger’s sake! .. , 

Two men rode silent back toward the 
lake; 


Sunrise in Wenice 


Two men rode silent down—but onl: 
one 

Rode up at morn to meet the risin 
sun. 


The red-clad fishers row and creep 
Below the crags as half asleep, 
Nor ever make a single sound. 
The walls are steep, 
The waves are deep; 
And if a dead man should be found 
By these same fishers in their round 
Why, who shall say but he was 

drown’'d? 


SUNRISE IN VENICE 


Night seems troubled and scarce 

asleep; 

Her brows are gather’d as in broken 
rest, 

A star in the east starts up from the 
deep! 

’Tis morn, new-born, with a star on 
her breast, 

White as my lilies that grow in the 
West! 

Hist! men are passing me hurriedly. 

I see the yellow, wide wings of a 
bark, 

Sail silently over my morning star. 

I see men move in the moving dark, 

Tall and silent as columns are; 

Great, sinewy men that are good to 
see, 

With hair push’d back, and with open 
breasts; 

Barefooted fishermen seeking their 
boats, 

Brown as walnuts, and hairy as 
goats,— 


Brave old water-dogs, wed to the 
sea, 

First to their labors and last to theit 
rests. 


Ships are moving. I hear a 

horn,— 

Answers back, and again it calls. 

"Tis the sentinel boats that watch the 
town 

All night, as mounting her watery 
walls, 

And watching for pirate or smuggler. 
Down 

Over the sea, and reaching away, 

And against the east, a soft light 
falls, 

Silvery soft as the mist of morn, 

And I catch a breath like the breath 
of day. 


The east is blossoming! Yea, a 
rose, 
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss, 


Sweet as the presence of woman is, 
Rises and reaches, and widens and 


grows 
‘large and luminous up from the 
i sea, 
And out of the sea as a blossoming 
tree. 


Richer and richer, so higher and 
| higher, 

Deeper and deeper it takes its 
hue; 

Brighter and brighter it reaches 
through 


_ Let me rise and go forth. A far, 
dim spark 

Ilumes my path. The light of my 
im day 

Hath fled, and yet am I far away. 
The bright, bent moon has dipp’d her 
| horn 

In the darkling sea. High up in the 
im dark 

The wrinkled old lion, he looks away 


To the east, and impatient as if for 
im) mom... . 

Thave gone the girdle of earth, and 
| say, 

‘What have I gain’d but a temple 
| gray, 

‘Two crow’s feet, and a heart for- 
| lorn? 


A star starts yonder like a soul 
| afraid! 

It falls like a thought through the 
great profound. 


Wale! America 


333 


The space of heaven to the place of 
stars. 

Then beams reach upward as arms 
from the sea; 

Then lances and arrows are aimed at 
me. 

Then lances and spangles and spars 
and bars 

Are broken and shiver’d and strown 
on the sea; 

And around and about me tower and 
spire i 

Start from the billows like tongues of 
fire. 


VALE! AMERICA 


Fearfully swift and with never a 


sound, 

It fades into nothing, as all things 
fade; 

Yea, as all things fail. And where is 
the leaven 

In the pride of a name or a proud 
man’s nod? 

Oh, tiresome, tiresome stairs to 
heaven! 

Weary, oh, wearysome ways to 
God! 

’Twere better to sit with the chin on 
the palm, 

Slow tapping the sand, come storm, 
come calm. 


I have lived from within and not 
from without; 
I have drunk from a fount, have fed 
from a hand 
That no man knows who lives upon 
land; 


334 


And yet my soul it is crying out. 
I care not a pin for the praise of 


men; 

But I hunger for love. I starve, I 
die, 

Each day of my life. Ye pass me 
by 

Each day, and laugh as ye pass; and 
when 

Ye come, I start in my place as ye 
come, 


And lean, and would speak,—but my 
lips are dumb. 


Yon sliding stars and the changeful 
ANOOND ici: 
Let me rest on the plains of Lombardy 
for aye, 
Or sit down by this Adrian Sea and 
die. 
The days that do seem as some 
afternoon 
They all are here. 
true 

To myself; can pluck and could plant 
anew 

My heart, and grow tall; could come 
to be 

Another being; lift bolder hand 

And conquer. Yet ever will come to 
me 

The thought that Italia is not my 
land. 


I am strong and 


Could I but return to my woods 
once more, 
And dwell in their depths as I have 
dwelt, 
Kneel in their mosses as I have 
knelt, 


Wale! America 


Sit where the cool white river 
run, 

Away from the world and half hi¢ 
from the sun, 

Hear winds in the wood of my storm: 
torn shore, 

To tread where only the red mar 
trod, 

To say no word, but listen to God! 

Glad to the heart with listening,— 

It seems to me that I then could 
sing, 

And sing as never sung man before. 


But deep-tangled woodland and 
wild waterfall, 
O farewell for aye, till the Judgment 


Day! 

I shall see you no more, O land of 
mine, 

O half-aware land, like a child at 
play! 


O voiceless and vast as the push’d- 
back skies! 

No more, blue seas in the blest 
sunshine, 

No more, black woods where the 
white peaks rise, 

No more, bleak plains where the high 
winds fall, 

Or the red man keeps or the shrill 
birds call! 


I must find diversion with another 

kind: 

There are roads on the land, broad 
roads on the sea; 

Take ship and sail, and sail till I 
find 

The love that I sought from etern- 
ity; | 


2un away from oneself, take ship and 
sail 

The middle white seas; see turban’d 
men,— 

Throw thought to the dogs for aye. 
And when 

All seas are travel’d and all scenes 
fail, 

Why, then this doubtful, sad gift of 
verse 

May save me from death—or some- 
thing worse. 


My hand it is weary, and my harp 
unstrung ; 

And where is the good that I pipe or 

sing, 

‘Fashion new notes, or shape any 

thing? 

The songs of my fivers remain 

unsung 

‘Henceforward for me.... 

| man shall arise 

From the far, vast valleys of the 

| Occident, 

“With hand ona harp of gold, and with 

eyes 

“That lift with glory and a proud 

intent; 

“Yet so gentle indeed, that his sad 

. heartstrings 

Shall thrill to the heart of your heart 

as he sings. 


But a 


, 


- Let the wind sing songs in the lake- 
side reeds, 
Lo, I shall be less than the indolent 
wind! 
Why should I sow, when I reap and 
bind 


Wale! America 


335 


And gather in nothing but the thistle 
weeds? 

It is best I abide, let what will 
befall; 

To rest if I can, let time roll by: 

Let others endeavor to learn, while 
z; 

With naught to conceal, with much to 
regret, 

Shall sit and endeavor, alone, to 
forget. 


Shall I shape pipes from these 

seaside reeds, 

And play for the children, that shout 
and call? 

Lo! men they have mock’d me the 
whole year through! 

I shall sing no more.... 
find in old creeds, 

And in quaint old tongues, a world 
that is new; 

And these, I will gather the sweets of 
them all. 

And the old-time doctrines and the 
old-time signs, 

I will taste of them all, as tasting old 
wines. 


I shall 


I will find new thought, as a new- 

found vein 

Of rock-lock’d gold in my far, fair 
West. 

I will rest and forget, will entreat to 
be blest; 

Take up new thought and again grow 
young; 

Yea, take a new world as one born 
again, 

And never hear more mine own 
mother tongue; 


336 


Nor miss it. Why should I? I 
never once heard, 

In my land’s language, love’s one 
sweet word. 


Did I court fame, or the favor of 


man? 

Make war upon creed, or strike hand 
with clan? 

I sang my songs of the sounding 
trees, 

As careless of name or of fame as the 
seas; 

And these I sang for the love of 
these, 


And the sad sweet solace they 
brought to me. 

I but sang for myself, touch’d here, 
touch’d there, 

As a strong-wing’d bird that flies 
anywhere. 

How do I wander! And 

yet why not? 

I once had a song, told a tale in 
rhyme; 

Wrote books, indeed, in my proud 
young prime; 

I aim’d at the heart like a musket 
ball; 

I struck cursed folly like a cannon 
shot,— 

And where is the glory or good of it 
all? 

Yet these did I write for my land, but 
this 

I write for myself,—and it is as it 
is. 


Yea, storms have blown counter 
and shaken me. 


Wale! America 


And yet was I fashion’d for strife, an 


strong 

And daring of heart, and born t 
endure; 

My soul sprang upward, my feet fel 
sure; 


My faith was as wide as a wide 
bough’d tree. 
But there be limits; and a sense ¢ 


wrong 
Forever before you will make yo 
less 
A man, than a man at first woul 
guess. 


Good men can forgive—and, ther 


say, forget... 

Far less of the angel than Indian i 
set é 

In my fierce nature. And I lool 
away 

To a land that is dearer than this, anc 
say, 

“T shall remember, though you maj 
forget. 

Yea, I shall remember for aye and i 
day 

The keen taunts thrown in a boy face 
when 

He cried unto God for the love o 
men.”’ 


Enough, ay and more than enough 

of this! 

I know that the sunshine must folloy 
the rain; 

And if this be the winter, why spring 
again 

Must come in its season, ful 
blossom’d with bliss. 


will lean to the storm, though the 

_ winds blow strong. ... 

2a, the winds they have blown and 

have shaken me— 

; the winds blow songs through a 
shattered old tree, 

ey have blown this broken and 
careless set song. 


They have sung this song, be it 
never so bad; 

ave blown upon me and play’d upon 

me, 

lave broken the notes,—blown sad, 

blown glad; 

ist as the winds blow fierce and 

free 

barren, a blighted, and a cursed fig 

"tree. 

nd if I grow careless and heed no 

whit 

Thether it please or what comes of 

it, 

Why, talk to the winds, then, and not 

~ to me. 


The quest of love? ’Tis the quest 
of troubles; 

Tis the wind through the woods of 
the Oregon. 

it down, sit down, for the world goes 
im on 

*recisely the same; and the rainbow 
bubbles 

M love, they gather, or break, or 
i. blow, 

Vhether you bother your brain or | 
a 0; 

{nd for all your troubles and all your 
_ tears, 


22 


Wale! America 


ale Hf 


’Twere just the same in a hundred 
years. 


By the populous land, or the lone- 

some sea, 

Lo! these were the gifts of the gods to 
men,— 

Three miserable gifts, 
three: 

To love, to forget, and to die—and 
then? 

To love in peril, and bitter-sweet 
pain, 

And then, forgotten, lie down and 
die: 

One moment of sun, whole seasons of 
rain, 

Then night is roll’d to the door of the 
sky. 


To love? To sit at her feet and to 

weep; 

To climb to her face, hide your face 
in her hair; 

To nestle you there like a babe in its 
sleep, 

And, too, like a babe, to believe—it 
stings there! 


and only 


To love! ’Tis to suffer, ‘‘Lie close to 
my breast, 

Like a fair ship in haven, O darling!”’ 
I cried. 


“Your round arms outreaching to 
heaven for rest 
Make signal to death.”’ . . Death 
came, and love died. 

To forget? ‘To forget, mount horse 
and clutch sword; 

Take ship and make sail to the ice- 
prison’d seas, 


338 


Write books and preach lies; range 
lands; or go hoard 

A grave full of gold, and buy wines— 
and drink lees: 

Then die; and die cursing, and call it 
a prayer! 

Is earth but a top—a_ boy-god’s 
delight, 

To be spun for his pleasure, while 
man’s despair 

Breaks out like a wail of the damn’d 
through the night? 


Sit down in the darkness and weep 

with me 

On the edge of the world. Lo, love 
lies dead! 

And the earth and the sky, and the 
sky and the sea, 

Seem shutting together as a book that 
is read. 

Yet what have we learn’d? 
laugh’d with delight 

In the morning at school, and kept 
toying with all 

Time’s silly _—_ playthings. 
wearied ere night, 

We must cry for dark-mother, her 
cradle the pall. 


We 


Now 


’Twere better blow trumpets 
*gainst love, keep away 

That traitorous urchin with fire or 
shower, 

Than have him come near you for one 
little hour. 

Take physic, consult with your doc- 
tor, as you 

Would fight a contagion; carry all 
through 


Wale! America 


The populous day some drug tk 
smells loud, 

As you pass on your way, or ma 
way through the crowd. 

Talk war, or carouse; only keep o 
the day 

Of his coming, with every hard mea 
in your way. 


Blow smoke in the eyes of the wo 

and laugh 

With the broad-chested men, as yi 
loaf at your inn, 

As you crowd to your inn from yo 
saddle and quaff 

Red wine from a horn; while ye 
dogs at your feet, | 

Your slim spotted dogs, like the faw 
and as fleet, 

Crouch patiently by and look up: 
your face, 

As they wait for the call of the hoi 
to the chase; 

For you shall not suffer, and you shé 
not sin 

Until peace goes out just as lov 
comes in. 


Love horses and hounds, me 

many good men— 

Yea, men are most proper, and kee 
you from care. 

There is strength in a horse. 
is pride in his will; 

It is sweet to look back as you clim 
the steep hill. 

Thereisroom. You have movemet 
of limb; you have air, : 

Have the smell of the wood, of tk 
grasses; and then 


The: 


Rome 339 


aat comfort to rest, as you lie Of troubles and love, that travel to- 


thrown full length gether 
| night and alone, with your fists | The round world round. Behold the 
_ full of strength! bubbles 


Of love! Then troubles and turbu- 


) away, go away with your bitter- 
lent weather. 


_ sweet pain 
‘love; for love is the story of | Why, man had all Eden! Then love, 
troubles, then Cain! 
ROME 
; I Ill 


‘Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome Yea, Time on yon Campagnan 


hat lords its gold cross to the skies, plain 

Thile at its base a beggar cries Has pitched in siege his battle-tents; 

or bread, and dies, and—this is And round about her battlements 
Has marched and trumpeted in 


vain. 


Rome. 
; II 
IV 


“Yet Rome is Rome, and Rome she 
These skies are Rome! The very 


must 

\nd shall remain beside her gates, loam 

{nd tribute take of Kings and | Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride; 
States, And Time, outfaced and still defied, 


Intil the stars have fallen to dust. Sits by and wags his beard at Rome. 


ATTILA’S THRONE, TORCELLO 


Ido recall some sad days spent Some sunny summer yesterdays, 
By borders of the Orient, I watched the storied yellow sail, 
'Twould makeatale. It matters not. And lifted prow of steely mail; 

I sought the loneliest seas; I sought Tis all that’s left Torcello now,— 
The solitude of ruins, and forgot -A pirate’s yellow sail, a prow. 
Mine own life and my littleness 


Before this fair land’s mute distress. I touch’d Torcello. Once on land, 


I took a sea-shell in my hand, 
And blew like any trumpeter. 


_ Slow sailing through the reedy 
I felt the fig leaves lift and stir 


isles, 


340 


On trees that reach from ruin’d wall 
Above my head,—but that was all. 
Back from the farther island shore 
Came echoes trooping—nothing more. 


By cattle paths grass-grown and 
worn, 
Through marbled streets all stain’d 
and torn 
By time and battle, lone I walk’d. 
A bent old beggar, white as one 
For better fruitage blossoming, 
Cameon. Andashecamehetalk’d 
Unto himself; for there were none 
In all his island, old and dim, 
To answer back or question him. 


I turn’d, retraced my steps once 
more. 

The hot miasma steam’d and rose 

In deadly vapor from the reeds 

That grew from out theshallow shore, 

Where peasants say the sea-horse 
feeds, 

And Neptune shapes his horn and 
blows. 


Yet here stood Adria once, and 

here 

Attila came with sword and flame, 

And set his throne of hollow’d stone 

In her high mart. And it remains 

Still lord o’er all. Where once the 
tears 

Of mute petition fell, the rains 

Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone 

There lifts this massive empty 
throne. 


I climb’d and sat that throne of 
stone 


Attila’s Throne, Toreello 


To contemplate, to dream, to reign— 

Ay, reign above myself; to call 

The people of the past again 

Before me as I sat alone 

In all my kingdom. There wey 
kine 

That browsed along the reedy brine 

And now and then a tusky boar 

Would shake the high reeds of th 
shore, 

A bird blow by,—but that was all, 


I watch’d the lonesome sea-gu 

pass. 

I did remember and forget,— 

The past roll’d by; I lived alone. 

I sat the shapely, chisell’d stone 

That stands in tall, sweet grasse 
Set; 

Ay, girdled deep in long, strong grass, 

And green alfalfa. Very fair 

The heavens were, and still anc 
blue, 

For Nature knows no changes there. 

The Alps of Venice, far away, 

Like some half-risen late moon lay. 


How sweet the grasses at my feet! 
The smell of clover over-sweet. 
Theard thehumofbees. Thebloom 
Of clover-tops and cherry-trees 
Was being rifled by the bees, 

And these were building in a tomb. 

The fair alfalfa—such as has 

Usurp’d the Occident, and grows 

With all the sweetness of the rose 

On Sacramento’s sundown hills— 

Is there, and that dead island fills 

With fragrance. Yet the smell of 
death 

Comes riding in on every breath. 


Wenice 


That sad, sweet fragrance. It had 


sense, 
nd sound, and voice. It was a 
_ part 
%§ that which had possess’d my 
im Heart, 


ind would not of my will go hence, 
[Twas Autumn’s breath; sad as the 
_ kiss 

X€ some sweet worshipp’d woman is. 


Some snails had climb’d the throne 
and writ 

‘heir silver monograms on it 

nunknown tongues. I sat thereon, 

-dream’d until the day was gone; 

blew again my pearly shell,— 

3lew long and strong, and loud and 
well; 


341 


I puff’d my cheeks, I blew as when 
Horn’d satyrs piped and danced as 
men. 


Some mouse-brown cows that fed 

within 

Look’dup. Acowherd rose hard by, 

My single subject, clad in skin, 

Nor yet half-clad. I caught his eye,— 

He stared at me, then turn’d and 
fled. 

He frighten’d fled, and as he ran, 

Like wild beast from the face of man 

Back o’er his shoulder threw his head. 

He stopp’d, and then this subject 
true, 

Mine only one in all the isle, 

Turn’d round, and, with a fawning 
smile, 

Came back and ask’d me for a sou! 


VENICE 


City at sea, thou art surely an ark, 
3ea-blown and a-wreck in the rain 
and dark, 

Where the white sea-caps are so toss’d 
and curl’d. 

Thy sins they were many—and be- 
hold the flood! 

And here and about us are beasts in 
stud. 

Creatures and beasts that creep and 
gO, 

Enough, ay, and wicked enough I 

know, | 
To populate, or devour, a world. 


_O wrinkled old lion, looking down 
With brazen frown upon mineand me, 


From tower a-top of your watery 
town, 

Old king of the desert, once king of 
the sea: 

List! here is a lesson for thee to-day. 

Proud and immovable monarch, I 
say, 

Lo! here is a lesson to-day for thee, 

Of the things that were and the things 
to be. 


Dank palaces held by the populous 
sea 
For the good dead men, all cover’d 
with shell,— 
We will pay them a visit some day; 
and we, 


342 


We may come to love their old 


palaces well. 

Bah! toppled old columns all tumbled 
across, 

Toss'd in the waters that lift and fall, 

Waving in waves long masses of 
moss, 

Toppled old columns,—and that will 
be all. 


I know you, lion of gray Saint 

Mark; 

You flutter’d all seas beneath your 
wing. 

Now, over the deep, and up in the 
dark, 

High over the girdles of bright 
gaslight, 

With wings in the air as if for 
flight, 

And crouching as if about to spring 

From top of your granite of Africa,— 

Say, what shall be said of you some 
day? 


What shall be said, O grim Saint 
Mark, 
Savage old beast so cross’d and 
churl’d, 


Q Hailstorm in Wenice 


By the after-men from the und 


world? 

What shall be said as they sear 
along 

And sail these seas for some sign 
spark 

Of the old dead fires of the dear o 
days, 

When men and story have gone the 
ways, 

Or even your city and name fro 
song? 


Why, sullen old monarch of still’ 

Saint Mark, 

Strange men of my West, wisi 
mouth’d and strong, 

Will come some day and, gazin 
long 

And mute with wonder, will say ¢ 
thee: 

“‘This is the Saint! 
dark, 

Foot on the Bible and great teet 
bare, 

Tail whipp’d back and teeth in th 
air— 

Lo! this is the Saint, and none bu 
he!” 


High over th 


A HAILSTORM IN VENICE 


The hail like cannon-shot struck 


the sea 

And churn’d it white as a creamy 
foam; 

Then hail like battle-shot struck 
where we 


Stood looking a-sea from a sea-girt 
home— 


Came shooting askance as if shot at 
the head; 

Then glass flew shiver’d and men fel’ 
down 

And pray’d where they fell, and the 
gray old town | 

Lay riddled and helpless as if shot 
dead. | 


Santa Maria: Torcello 343 


Then lightning right full in the 
_ eyes! and then 

ir women fell down flat on the 
| face, 

ad pray’d their pitiful Mother with 
tears, 

ad pray’d black death as a hiding- 
place; 


And good priests pray’d for the sea- 
bound men 
As never good priests had pray’d for 


yearsahin ys 
Then God spake thunder! And then 
the rain! 
The great, white, beautiful, high- 
born rain! 


SANTA MARIA: TORCELLO 


And yet again through the watery 

miles 

f reeds I row’d, till the desolate 

isles 

tf the black-bead makers of Venice 
were not. 

touch’d where a single sharp tower is 
shot 

‘o heaven, and torn by thunder and 
rent 

is if it had been Time’s battlement. 

\ city lies dead, and this great grave- 

| stone 

Yands on its grave like a ghost 
alone. 


Some cherry-trees grow here, and 
here 
4n old church, simple and severe 
fn ancient aspect, stands alone 
id the ruin and decay, all grown 
In moss and grasses. Old and 


quaint, 

With antique cuts of martyr 'd 
saint, 

The gray church stands with stooping 
knees, 


Defying the decay of seas. 


Her pictured hell, with flames 


blown high, 

In bright mosaics wrought and 
set 

When men first knew the Nubian 
art: 

Her bearded saints as black as 
jet; 

Her quaint Madonna, dim with 
rain 


And touch of pious lips of pain, 

So touch’d my lonesome soul, that I 

Gazed long, then came and gazed 
again, 

And loved, and took her to my 
heart. 


Nor monk in black, nor Capucin, 
Nor priest of any creed was seen. 
A sunbrown’d woman, old and 
tall, 
And still as any shadow is, 
Stole forth from out the mossy wall 
With massive keys to show me 
this: 
Came slowly forth, and, following, 
Three birds—and all with drooping 
wing. 


344 


Three mute brown babes of hers; 
and they— 
Oh, they were beautiful as sleep, 
Or death, below the troubled deep! 
And on the pouting lips of these, 
Red corals of the silent seas, 
Sweet birds, the everlasting seal 
Of silence that the God has set 
On this dead island sits for aye. 


I would forget, yet not forget 
Their helpless eloquence. 
creep 
Somehow into my heart, and keep 
One bleak, cold corner, jewel set. 
They steal my better self away 
To them, as little birds that day 
Stole fruits from out the cherry- 
trees. 


They 


So helpless and so wholly still, 
So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise, 


) In a Gondola 


That I did love, despite my will. 
One little maid of ten—such eyes, 
So large and lovely, so divine! 
Such pouting lips, such pearly chee 
Did lift her perfect eyes to mine, 
Until our souls did touch az 
speak— 
Stood by me all that perfect day, 
Yet not one sweet word could sj 
Say. 


She turn’d her melancholy eyes 
So constant to my own, that I 
Forgot the going clouds, the sky; 
Found fellowship, took bread an 

wine: 
And so her little soul and mine 
Stood very near together there. 
And oh, I found her very fair! 
Yet not one soft word could sk 
say: 
What did she think of all that day? 


IN A GONDOLA 


’Twas night in Venice. Then down 
to the tide, 


Where a tall and a shadowy gondo- 


lier 

Lean’d on his oar, like a lifted 
spear ;— 

"Twas night in Venice; then side by 
side 

We sat in his boat. Then oar 
a-trip 

On the black boat’s keel, then dip 
and dip, 


These boatmen should build their 
boats more wide, 


For we were together, and side br 
side. 


The sea it was level as seas 0 

light, 

As still as the light ere a hand wa: 
laid 

To the making of lands, or the seas 
were made. 

’Twas fond as a bride on her bridal 
night 

When a great love swells in her soul 
like a sea, 

And makes her but less than divinity. 


’Twas night,—The soul of the day, I 
wis. 
A woman's face hiding from her first 
kiss. 


! .. Ah, how one wanders! Yet 

| after it all, 

To laugh at all lovers and to learn to 

eal hy ee 

When you really have naught of 

: account to say, 

Itis better, perhaps, to pull leaves by 
the way; 

Watch the round moon rise, or the red 
stars fall; 

And then, too, in Venice! dear, moth- 
eaten town; 

One palace of pictures; great frescoes 
spill’d down 


The Capucin of Rome 


345 


Outside the walls from the fullness 


thereof :— 
'Twas night in Venice. On o’er 

the tide— 

These boats they are narrow as they 
can be, 

These crafts they are narrow enough, 
and we, 

To balance the boat, sat side by 
side— 

Out under the arch of the Bridge of 
Sighs, 

On under the arch of the star-sown 
skies; 

We two were together on the Adrian 
Sea,— 

The one fair woman of the world to 
me. 


THE CAPUCIN OF ROME 


Only a basket for fruits or bread 
And the bits you divide with your 
dog, which you 


| Had left from your dinner. The 

| round year through 

~ He never once smiles. He bends his 

: head 

' To the scorn of men. He gives the 
road 

_ To the grave ass groaning beneath his 

load. 


_ He is ever alone. Lo! never a hand 
Ts laid in his hand through the whole 
wide land, 
Save when a man dies, and he shrives 
him home. 
And that is the Capucin monk of 
4 Rome. 


He coughs, he is hump’d, and he 
hobbles about 
In sandals of wood. Then a hempen 


cord 

Girdles his loathsome gown. 
Abhorr’d! 

Ay, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast 
out. 


One gown in three years! and—bah! 
how he smells! 

He slept last night in his coffin of 
stone, 

This monk that coughs, this skin 
and bone, 

This living dead corpse from the 
damp, cold cells,— 

Go ye where the Pincian, half-level’d 
down, 


346 


Slopes slow to the south. These 
men in brown 

Have a monkery there, quaint, 
builded of stone; 

And, living or dead, ’tis the brown 
men’s home,— 

These dead brown monks who are 
living in Rome! 


You will hear wood sandals on the 

sanded floor; 

A cough, then the lift of a latch, then 
the door 

Groans open, and—horror! 
walls of stone 

All gorgeous with flowers and frescoes 
of bone! 

There are bones in the corners and 
bones on the wall; 

And he barks like a dog that watches 
his bone, 

This monk in brown from his bed of 
stone— 

He barks, and he coughs, and that is 
all. 

At last he will cough as if up from his 
cell; 

Then strut with considerable pride 
about, 

And lead through his blossoms of 
bone, and smell 

Their odors; then talk, as he points 
them out, 

Of the virtues and deeds of the gents 
who wore 

The respective bones but the year 
before. 


Four 


Then he thaws at last, ere the bones 
are through, 


The Capucin of Rome 


And talks right well as he turns them 
about . 

And stirs up a most unsavory smell; 

Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, 


till you 

Wish them, as they are, no doubt, in 
—well, 

A very deep well. . . . And that may 
be why, 

As he shows you the door and bows 
good-by, | 

That he bows so low for a franc or 
two, 

To shrive their souls and to get them 
out— 

These bony brown men who have 
their home, 

Dead or alive, in their cells at 
Rome. 


What good does he do in the world? 

Ah! well, 

Now that is a puzzler. ... 
listen! He prays. 

His life is the fast of the forty days. 

He seeks the despised; he divides the 
bread 

That he begg’d on his knees, does this 
old shavehead. 

And then, when the thief and the 
beggar fell! 

And then, when the terrible plague 
came down, 

Christ, how we cried to these men in 
brown 

When other men fled! 
was seen 

Stand firm to the death like the 
Capucin? 


But, 


Ah, who then 


FROM SHADOWS OF SHASTA, 1881 


347 


MOUNT 


To lord all Godland! lift the brow 
Familiar to the moon, to top 

The universal world, to prop 
The hollow heavens up, to vow 
Stern constancy with stars, 

| keep 

Eternal watch while eons sleep; 
To tower proudly up and touch 
‘God’s purple garment-hems that 
sweep 

The cold blue north! 
| much! 


to 


Oh, this were 


A LAND THAT MAN 


‘Aland that man has newly trod, 

A land that only God has known, 

Through all the soundless cycles 
flown. 

Yet perfect blossoms bless the sod, 

And perfect birds illume the 
trees 

And perfect unheard harmonies 

Pour out eternally to God. 


{ 


The mountains from that fearful first 
Named day were God’s own house. 
Behold, 

’Twas here dread Sinai’s thunders 
burst 


SHASTA 


Where storm-born shadows hide and 
hunt 

I knew thee, in thy glorious youth, 

Andloved thy vast face, white as truth. 

I stood where thunderbolts were wont 

To smite thy Titan-fashioned front, 

And heard dark mountains rock and 
roll; 

I saw the lighting’s gleaming rod 

Reach forth and write on heaven’s 
scroll 

The awful autograph of God! 


HAS NEWLY TROD 


A thousand miles of mighty wood 
Where thunder-storms stride fire- 
shod; 
A thousand flowers every rod, 
A stately tree on every rood; 
Ten thousand leaves on every tree, 
And each a miracle to me; 
And yet there be men who question 
God! 


THE MOUNTAINS 


And showed His face. ’Twas here of 
old 

His prophets dwelt. Lo, it was here 

The Christ did come when death drew 


near. 


349 


350 


Give me God’s wondrous upper world 
That makes familiar with the moon; 
These stony altars, they have hurled 


FOR THE 


“For the Right! as God has given 
Man to see the Maiden Right!” 
For the Right, through thickest 

night, 

Till the man-brute Wrong be driven 
From high places; till the Right 
Shall lift like some grand beacon 

light. 


For the Right 


Oppression back, have kept the boo: 
Of liberty. Behold, how free 
The mountains stand, and eternally 


RIGHT 


For the Right! 
Duty; 
Lift the world up, though yot 
fall 
Heaped with dead before the wall 
God can find a soul of beauty 
Where it falls, as gems of worth 
Are found by miners dark in earth 


Love, Right anc 


O, THE MOCKERY OF PITY 


O, the mockery of pity! 
Weep with fragrant handker- 
chief, 
In pompous luxury of grief, 
Selfish, hollow-hearted city? 


O these money-getting times! 


What’s a heart for? What’s a 
hand, 
But to seize and shake the land, 
Till it tremble for its crimes? 


O TRANQUIL MOON 


O tranquil moon! O pitying moon! 
Put forth thy cool, protecting 
palms, 
And cool their eyes with cooling 
alms, 
Against the burning tears of noon. 


And kiss them, 


O saintly, noiseless-footed nun! 
O sad-browed patient mother, keer 
Thy homeless children while they 
sleep, 
weeping, every 
one. 


LOG CABIN LINES 


35! 


AD, yt 
*" 


- rhe r 


The monument, tipped with elec- 
tric fire, 

3lazed high in a halo of light below 

Vy low cabin door in the hills that 

inspire; 

\nd the dome of the Capitol gleamed 

| like snow 

in a glory of light, as higher and 

higher 

This wondrous creation of man was 

sent 

To challenge the lights of the firma- 

| ment. 


A tall man, tawny and spare as 
bone, 

With battered old hat and with feet 

| half bare, 

With the air of a soldier that was all 

| his own— 

‘Aye, something more than a soldier’s 

air— 

Came clutching a staff, with a face 

im like stone; 

Limped in through my gate—and I 

| thought to beg— 

Tight clut hing a staff, slow dragging 

a leg. 


_ The bent new moon, like a simitar, 
Kept peace in Heaven. All earth lay 
still. 
Some sentinel stars stood watch 
afar, 


23 


THE SOLDIERS’ HOME, WASHINGTON 


Some crickets kept clanging along the 
hill, 

As the tall, stern relic of blood and 
war 

Limped in, and, with hand up to brow 
half raised, 

Limped up, looked about, as one 
dazed or crazed. 


His gaunt face pleading for food 

and rest, 

His set lips white as a tale of shame, 

His black coat tight to a shirtless 
breast, 

His black eyes burriing in mine-like 
flame; 

But never a word from his set lips 
came 

As he whipped in line his battered old 
leg, 

And his knees made mouths, and as if 
to beg. 


Aye! black were his eyes; but 
doubtful and dim 


Their vision of beautiful earth, I 


think. 

And I doubt if the distant, dear 
worlds to him 

Were growing brighter as he neared 
the brink 

Of dolorous seas where phantom ships 
swim. 


353 


354 Che Soldiers’ Home, Washington 


For his face was as hard as the hard, 
thin hand 

That clutched that staff like an iron 
band. 


“Sir, lama soldier!’’ The battered 

old hat 

Stood up as he spake, like to one on 
parade— 

Stood taller and braver as he spake 
out that— 

And the tattered old coat, that was 
tightly laid 

To the battered old breast, looked so 
trim thereat 

That I knew the mouths of the bat- 
tered old leg 

That had opened wide were not made 
to beg. 


“T have wandered and wandered 

this twenty year, 

Searched up and down for my regi- 
ments. 

Have they gone to that field where no 
foes appear? 

Have they pitched in Heaven their 
cloud-white tents? 

Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find 
them here 

On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers’ 
Home, 

Where the weary soldiers have ceased 
to roam? 


“Aye, I am a soldier and a briga- 
dier; 

Is this the way to the Soldiers’ Home? 

There is plenty and rest for us all, I 
hear, 


And a bugler, bidding us cease 
roam, 

Rides over the hill all the livelo 
year— 

Rides calling and calling the brave 
come 

And rest and rest in that Soldie 
Home. 


“Ts this, sir, the way? I wander 
in here 
Just as one oft will at the close of da 
Aye, Iam a soldier, and a brigadier 
Now, the Soldiers’ Home, sir. 
this the way? 
I have wandered and wandered tt 
twenty year, 
Seeking some trace of my regiment 
Sabered and riddled and torn to rent 


‘‘Aye, I am a soldier and a brig 

dier! 

A battered old soldier in the dusk | 
his day; 

But you don’t seem to heed, or yc 
don’t seem to hear, 

Though, meek as I may, I ask for tl 
way 

To the Soldiers’ Home, which mu: 
be quite near, 

While under your oaks, in your eas 
chair, 

You sit and you sit, and you stat 
and you stare. 


“What battle? What deeds did 
do in the fight? 4 
Why, sir, I have seen green field 
turn as red 
As yonder red town in that marvelou 
light! 


then the great blazing guns! Then 
the ghastly white dead— 
ut, tell me, I faint, I must cease to 
# roam! 
his battered leg aches! 
sabered old head— 
sis this the way to the Soldiers’ 


Home? 


Then this 


“Why, I hear men say ’t is a Para- 
i 6dise 

jn the green oak hills by the great 
| red town; 

“hat many old comrades shall meet 
i «my eyes; 

“hat a tasseled young trooper rides 
up and rides down, 
With bugle horn blowing to the still 
blue skies, 

Rides calling and calling us to rest 
and to stay 

‘n that Soldiers’ Home. Sir, is this 
the way? 


“My leg is so lame! Then this 
sabered old head— 

Ah! pardon me, sir, I never complain; 
But the road is so rough, as I just 
now said; 

And then there is this something that 
troubles my brain. 

{t makes the light dance from yon 
Capitol’s dome; 

It makes the road dim as I doubtfully 
im tread— 

And—sir, is this the way to the 
Soldiers’ Home? 


| 
“Brom the first to the last in that 


| desperate war— 
Why, I did my part. If I did not fall, 


The Soldiers’ Home, Washington 


355 


A hair’s breadth measure of this skull- 
bone scar 

Was all that was wanting; and then 
this ball— 

But what cared I? Ah! better by far 

Have a sabered old head and a shat- 
tered old knee 

To the end, than not had the praise 
of Lee 


“What! What do I hear? No 


home there for me? 
Why, I heard men say that the war 


was at end! 

Oh, my head swims so: and I scarce 
can see! 

But a soldier’s a soldier, I think, my 
friend, 

Wherever that soldier may chance to 
be! 

And wherever a soldier may chance to 
roam, 

Why, a Soldiers’ Home is a soldier’s 
home!”’ 


He turned as to go; but he sank to 

the grass; 

And I lifted my face to the firmament; 

For I saw a sentinel white star 
pass, 

Leading the way the old soldier 
went. 

And the light shone bright from the 
Capitol’s dome, 

Ah, brighter from Washington’s 
monument, — 

Lighting his way to the Soldiers, 
Home. 


THE CABIN, Washington, D. C. 


350 


live 


OLIVE 


Dove-borne symbol, olive bough; 


Dove-hued sign from God to men, 
As if still the dove and thou 
Kept companionship as then. 


Dove-hued, holy branch of peace 
Antique, all-enduring tree; 
Deluge and the floods surcease— 
Deluge and Gethsemane. 


THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH 


The tented field wore a wrinkled 
frown, 
And the emptied church from the hill 
looked down 
On the emptied road and the emptied 
town, 
That summer Sunday morning. 


And here was the blue, and there 
was the gray; 
And a wide green valley rolled away 
Between where the battling armies 
lay, 
That sacred Sunday morning. 


And Custer sat, with impatient 
will, 
His restless horse, ’mid his troopers 
still, 
As he watched with glass from the 
oak-set hill, 
That silent Sunday morning. 


Then fast he began to chafe and to 
fret; 
“There’s a battle flag on a bayonet 
Too close to my own true soldiers set 
For peace this Sunday morning!”’ 


“Ride over, some one,” he haught- 
ily said, 


“And bring it to me! Why, in bai 
blood red 

And in stars I will stain it, and over 
head 

Will flaunt it this Sunday morning! 


Then a West-born lad, pale-facei 
and slim, 
Rode out, and touching his cap t 
him, 
Swept down, swept swift as Sprin; 
swallows swim, 
That anxious Sunday morning. 


On, on through the valley! up, up 
anywhere! 
That pale-faced lad like a_ hire 
through the air 
Kept on till he climbed to the banner 
there 
That bravest Sunday morning! 


And he caught up the flag, and 
around his waist 
He wound it tight, and he turned in 
haste, 
And swift his perilous route retraced 
That daring Sunday morning. 


All honor and praise to the trusty 
steed! . 


\h! boy, and banner, and all God 
| speed! 

3od’s pity for you in your hour of 
need 

This deadly Sunday morning. 


_O, deadly shot! and O, shower of 
lead! 

D, iron rain on the brave, bare 
head! 

‘Why, even the leaves from the trees 
fall dead 

This dreadful Sunday morning! 


| But he gains the oaks! Men cheer 
in their might! 

Brave Custer is laughing in his de- 
light! 


i THE LOST 


The dying land cried; they heard 

her death-call, 

These bent old men stopped, listened 
intent; 

‘Then rusty old muskets rushed down 

from the wall, 

‘And squirrel-guns gleamed in that 

| regiment, 

And grandsires marched, old muskets 
in hand— 

The last men left in the old South- 

land. 


_. The gray grandsires! They were 
seen to reel, 

‘Their rusty old muskets a wearisome 

load; 

They marched, scarce tall as the 

cannon’s wheel, 


The Lost Regiment 


SDs, 


Why, he is embracing the boy outright 
This glorious Sunday morning! 


But, soft! Nota word has the pale 
boy said. 
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, 
striped, red 
With his heart’s best blood; and he 
falls down dead, 
In God’s still Sunday morning. 


So, wrap this flag to his soldier’s 
breast: 
Into stars and stripes it is stained and 
blest; ; 
And under the oaks let him rest and 
rest 
Till God’s great Sunday morning. 


REGIMENT 


Marched stooping on up the corduroy 
road; 

These gray old boys, all broken and 
bent, 

Marched out, the gallant last regi- 
ment. 


But oh! that march through the 

cypress trees, 

When zest and excitement had died 
away! 

That desolate march through the 
marsh to the knees— 

The gray moss mantling the battered 
and gray— 

These gray grandsires all broken and 
bent— 

The gray moss mantling the regi- 
ment. 


358 


The gray bent men and the mosses 

gray; 

The dull dead gray of the uniform! 

The dull dead skies, like to lead that 
day, 

Dull, dead, heavy and deathly warm! 

Oh, what meant more than the cy- 
press meant, 

With its mournful moss, to that regi- 
ment? 


That deadly march through the 

marshes deep! 

That sultry day and the deeds in 
vain! 

The rest on the cypress roots, the 
sleep— 

The sleeping never to rise again! 

The rust on the guns; the rust and 
the rent— 

That dying and desolate regiment! 


The muskets left leaning against 
the trees, 
The cannon-wheels clogged from the 
moss o’er head, 
The cypress trees bending on obsti- 


nate knees 

As gray men kneeling by the gray 
men dead! 

A lone bird rising, long legged and 
gray, 

Slow rising and rising and drifting 
away. 

The dank dead mosses gave back 

no sound, 

The drums lay silent as the drummers 
there; 


The sultry stillness it was so profound 


The Lost Regiment 


You might have heard an unuttere 
prayer; 

And ever and ever and far away, 

Kept drifting that desolate bird i 


gray. 


The long gray shrouds of that cy 

press wood, 

Like vails that sweep where the gray 
nuns weep— 

That cypress moss o’er the danknes 
deep, 

Why, the cypress roots they wer 
running blood; 

And to right and to left lay an ok 
man dead— 

A mourning cypress set foot and head 


’Twas man hunting man in th 

wilderness there; 

’Twas man hunting man and hunting 
to slay, 

But nothing was found but deat 
that day, 

And possibly God—and that bird ir 
gray 

Slow rising and rising and drifting 
away. 


Now down in the swamp where ths 
gray men fell 
The fireflies volley and volley at 


night, 

And black men belated are heard te 
tell 

Of the ghosts in gray in a mimic 
sa—hoht a 

Of the ghosts of the gallant old men 
in gray 


Who silently died in the swamp tha 
day. . 


The huge sea monster, the ‘‘ Merri- 
mac’’s 

‘he mad sea monster, the ‘‘Moni- 

| tor’: 

7ou may sweep the sea, peer forward 
and back, 

3ut never a sign or a sound of 

war. 

\ vulture or two in the heavens 

blue; 

1\ sweet town building, a boatman’s 

call: 

The far sea-song of a pleasure 

| crew; 

The sound of hammers. And that is 

all. 


My own and my only Love some 
night 

Shall keep her tryst, shall come from 

the South, 

And oh, her robe of magnolia white! 

‘And ob, and oh, the breath of her 

mouth! 


And oh, her grace in the grasses 
sweet! 
‘And oh, her love in the leaves new 
born! 
And oh, and oh, her lily-white feet 
Set daintily down in the dew-wet 
morn! 


The drowsy, cattle at night shall 


| kneel 
And give God thanks, and shall dream 


and rest; 


Pewport Mews 
NEWPORT NEWS 


oo 


And where are the monsters that 

tore this main? 

And where are the monsters that 
shook this shore? 

The sea grew mad! 
shot flame! 

The mad sea monsters they are no 
more. 

The palm, and the pine, and the sea 
sands brown; 

The far sea songs of the pleasure 
crews; 

The air like balm in this building 
town— 

And that is the picture of Newport 
News. 


And the shore 


THE COMING OF SPRING 


The stars slip down and a golden seal 
Be set on the meadows my Love has 
blest. 


Come back, my Love, come sud- 
den, come soon. 
The world lies waiting as the cold 
dead lie; 
The frightened winds wail and the 
crisp-curled moon 
Rides, wrapped in clouds, up the cold 


gray sky. 


Oh, Summer, my Love, my first, 
last Love! 
I sit all day by Potomac here, 
Waiting and waiting the voice of the 
dove; 
Waiting my darling, my own, my dear. 


TuE CABIN, Washington, D. C. 


360 


Summer Hoong at #ount Vernon 


SUMMER MOONS AT MOUNT VERNON 


Such musky smell of maiden night! 

Such bridal bough, like orange tree! 

Such wondrous stars! Yon lily 
moon 

Seems like some long-lost afternoon! 


More perfect than a string of pearls 
We hold the full days of the year; 
The days troop by like flower girls, 
And all the days are ours here. 


Here youth must learn; here age may 
live 
Full tide each day the year can give, 


No frosted wall, no frozen hasp, 
Shuts Nature’s book from us today; 
Her palm leaves lift too high to clasp 
Her college walls, the milky way. 
The light is with us! Read and lead 
The larger book, the loftier deed! 


THE POEM BY THE POTOMAC 


Paine! The Prison of France! 

Lafayette! 

The Bastile key to our Washington, 

Whose feet on the necks of tyrants 
set 5 

Shattered their prisons every one. 

The key hangs here on his white walls 
high, 

That all shall see, that none shall 
forget 

What tyrants have been, what they 
may be yet; 

And the Potomac rolling by. 


WASHINGTON BY 


The snow was red with patriot 

blood, 

The proud foe tracked the blood-red 
snow. 

The flying patriots crossed the flood 

A tattered, shattered band of woe. 

Forlorn each barefoot hero stood, 

With bare head bended low. 


On Washington’s walls let it rust 

and rust, 

And tellits story of blood and of tears, 

That Time still holds to the Poets 
trust, 

To people his pages for years and 
years. 

The monstrous shape on the white 
walls high, 

Like a thief in chains let it rot and 
rust— 

Its kings and adorers crowned in dust: 

And the Potomac rolling by. 


THE DELAWARE 
“Let us cross back! Death waits 

us here: 

Recross or die!’’ the chieftain Said. . 

A famished soldier dropped a tear— 

A tear that froze as it was shed: 

For oh, his Starving babes were 
dear— 

They had but this for bread! 


- A captain spake: ‘‘It cannot be! 
These bleeding men, why, what could 
_ they? 

‘Twould be as snowflakes in a sea!”’ 
The worn chief did not heed or say. 
He set his firm lips silently, 

Then turned aside to pray. 


_ And as he kneeled and prayed to 
God, 

God’s finger spun the stars in space; 
He spread his banner blue and broad, 
He dashed the dead sun’s stripes in 
place, 

Till war walked heaven fire shod 
And lit the chieftain’s face: 


Tillevery soldier’s heart wasstirred, 
Till every sword shook in its sheath— 
“Up! up! Face back. But not one 
word!” 


‘The bravest battle that ever was 
fought; 
Shall I tell you where and when? 
On the maps of the world you will 
find it not; 
It was fought by the mothers of 
men. 


Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, 

_ With sword or braver pen; 

Nay, not with eloquent word or 
thought, 

From mouths of wonderful men. 


But deep in a woman’s walled-up 
heart— 


The Brabest Battle 


361 


God’s flag above; the ice beneath— 
They crossed so still, they only heard 
The icebergs grinding their teeth! 


Ho! Hessians, hirelings at meat 
While praying patriots hunger so! 


Then, bang! Boom! Bang! Death 
and defeat! 
And blood? Ay, blood upon the 

snow! 


Yet not the blood of patriot feet, 
But heart’s blood of the foe! 


O ye who hunger and despair! 
O ye who perish for the sun, 
Look up and dare, for God is there; 
And man can do what man has 
done! 
Think, think of darkling Delaware! 
Think, think of Washington! 


THE BRAVEST BATTLE 


Of woman that would not yield, 
But patiently, silently bore her part— 
Lo! there in that battle-field. 


No marshaling troop, no bivouac 
song; 
No banners to gleam and wave; 
And oh! these battles they last so 
long— 
From babyhood to the grave! 


Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, 
She fights in her walled-up town— 
Fights on and on in the endless 
wars, 
Then silent, unseen—goes down. 


a6 
YI 


Nea 


THE ULTIMATE WEST 


My Mountains still are free! 
They hurl oppression back; 
They keep the boon of lsberty. 


363 


You will come my bird, Bonita? 
‘Come! For I by steep and stone 
Have built such nest for you, Juanita, 
As not eagle bird hath known. 


- Rugged! Rugged as Parnassus! 
Rude, as all roads I have trod— 

Yet are steeps and stone-strewn 
passes 

‘Smooth o’erhead, and nearest God. 


Here black thunders of my cafion 

Shake its walls in Titan wars! 

Here white sea-born clouds com- 
panion 

With such peaks as know the stars! 


Here madrona, manzanita— 
Here the snarling chaparral 
House and hang o’er steeps, Juanita, 
Where the gaunt wolf loved to dwell! 


__ Dear, I took these trackless masses 
| Fresh from Him who fashioned them; 
Wrought in rock, and hewed fair 
passes, 

Flower set, as sets a gem. 


Aye, I built in woe. God willed it; 
Woe that passeth ghosts of guilt; 


TO JUANITA 


Yet I built as His birds builded— 
Builded, singing as I built. 


Allis finished! Roads of flowers 
Wait your loyal little feet. 
All completed? Nay, the hours 
Till you come are incomplete. 


Steep below me lies the valley, 
Deep below me lies the town, 
Where great sea-ships ride and rally, 
And the world walks up and down. 


O, the sea of lights far streaming 
When the thousand flags are furled— 
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming 
As it duplicates the world! 


You will come, my dearest, truest? 
Come my sovereign queen of ten; 
My blue skies will then be bluest; 
My white rose be whitest then: 


Then thesong! Ah, then the saber 
Flashing up the walls of night! 
Hate of wrong and love of neighbor— 
Rhymes of battle for the Right! 


Tue HicuTs, CAL. 


365 


* 


California’s Resurrection 


CALIFORNIA’S RESURRECTION 


366 
The rain! The rain! The generous 
rain! 
All things are his who knows to 
wait. 


Behold the rainbow bends again 
Above the storied, gloried Gate— 
God’s written covenant to men 
In Tyrian tints on cloth of gold, 
Such as no tongue or pen hath 
told! 


Behold brown grasses where you 
pass— 
A sleeping lion’s tawny mane, 


Brown-breasted Mother Earth ir 
pain 
Of travail—God’s forgiving grass 
Long three days dead to rise again 
To lead us upward, on and on— 
Each blade a shining saber drawn. 


Behold His Covenenat is true! . 
Lo! California soon shall wear 
About her ample breast each hue 
That yonder hangs high-arched 
mid air! 
Behold the very grasses knew! 
Behold the Resurrection is! 
Behold what witness like to this? 


PLEASANT TO THE SIGHT 


“And God planted a garden eastward in Eden wherein He caused to grow every tree 
that is pleasant to the sight and good for food.”’ 


Behold the tree, the lordly tree, 
- That fronts the four winds of the 
storm, 
A fearless and defiant form 
That mocks wild winter merrily! 
Behold the beauteous, budding tree 
With censers swinging in the air, 
With arms in attitude of prayer, 
With myriad leaves, and every leaf 
A miracle of color, mold, 
More gorgeous than a house of 
gold! 
Each leaf a poem of God’s plan, 
Each leaf as from His book of old 
To build, to bastion man’s belief: 
Man’s love of God, man’s love of man. 


Aye, love His trees, leaf, trunk, or 
root, 


The comely, stately, upright grace 
That greets God’s rain with lifted 
face; 
The great, white beauteous, high- 
born rain 
That rides as white sails ride the main, 
That wraps alike leaf, trunk or shoot, 
When sudden thunder lights his 
torch . 
And strides high Heaven’s ample 
porch. 
Aye, love God’s tree, leaf, branch and 
root. 
For God set first the pleasant tree; 
The ‘‘good for food’’ came tardily. 
The poor, blind hog knows but the 
fruit, 
And wallows in his fat and dies, 
A hog, up to his very eyes. 


The trees they lean’d in their love 
unto trees, 

| That lock’d in their loves, and were 
so made strong, 


You ask for manliest, martial deeds? 
Go back to Ohio’s natal morn— 
Go back to Kentucky’s fields of 

corn; 

Just weeds and stumps and stumps 

and weeds! 

Just red men blazing from stump and 

tree 

Where buckskin’d prophets ’midst 
strife and stress 

Came crying, came dying in the 
wilderness, 

‘That hard, first, cruel half-century! 


What psalms they sang! what prayers 
they said, 
Cabin or camp, 
rolled west; 


as the wheels 


Silently leaving their bravest, 

Dest 

Paving a Nation’s path with their 

dead! 

What unnamed battles! what thumps 
and bumps! 

_ What saber slashes with the broad, 
bright hoe! 


What weeds in phalanx! what 
stumps in row! 
What rank vines fortressed in rows 
| of stumps! 


The Trees 
THE TREES 


367 


Stronger than armies; ay, stronger 


than seas 
That rush from their caves in a 
storm of song. 


A HARD ROW FOR STUMPS 


Just stumps and nettles and weed- 
choked corn 
Tiptoeing to wave but one blade in 
air! 
Dank milkweed here, and rank 
burdock there 
Besieging and storming that blade 
forlorn! 
Such weed-bred fevers, slow sapping 
the brave— 
The homesick heart and the aching 
head! 
The hoe and the hoe, ’till the man 
lay dead 
And the great west wheels rolled over 
his grave. 


And the saying grew, as sayings will 


grow 
From hard endeavor and bangs and 
bumps: 
“He got in a mighty hard row of 
stumps; 
But he tried, and died trying to hoe 
his row.” 
O braver and brighter this ten-pound 
hoe, 
Than brightest, broad saber of 
Waterloo! 


Nor ever fell soldier more truly true 


308 @ Hard Row for Stumps 


Than he who died trying to hoe his | For he bled and he led us, how lot 
TOW. ago! 

And ye who inherit the fields he wo 

Lorn graves where the Waba: 


The weeds are gone and the stumps ; 
slips away, 


are gone— (Cs Haan cant 
The huge hop-toad and the copper- 0 Tao tO STCeh Pat <2 Viet 
head babes may play 
And a million bent sabers flash | Unhindered of stumps or of weeds. 
sun. 


triumph instead 
From stately, clean corn in the 
diamond-sown dawn. 
But the heroes have vanished, save 
here and there, 
Far out and afield like some storm- 


T have hewn some weeds, swung 
heavy, broad hoe— 
Such weeds! such a mighty haz 
row for stumps! 


riven tree, Such up-hill struggles, such dow 
Leans a last survivor of Ther- hill slumps 
er, As you, please God, may never onc 
pyle, eta 
Leafless and desolate, lone and bare. cata : : 
But the sea lies yonder, just a leagu 
below, 
His hands are weary, put by the hoe; All down-hill now, and I go m 
His ear is dull and his eyes are dim. way— 
Give honor to him and give place Not far to go, and not much to say 
for him, Save that I tried, tried to hoe my roy 


‘THE GOLD THAT GREW BY SHASTA TOWN 


From Shasta town to Redding town | Leaps careless o’er the golden oat 


The ground is torn by miners dead; That grows below the water moat; 
The manzanita, rank and red, The lizard basks in sunlight there. 
Drops dusty berries up and down The brown hawk swims the perfume 
Their grass-grown trails. Their silent air 
mines Unfrightened through the livelon; 
Are wrapped in chaparral and vines; day; 
Yet one gray miner still sits down And now and then a curious bear 
"Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta | Comes shuffling down the ditch by 
town. night, 
And leaves some wide, long tracks in 
The quail pipes pleasantly. The clay 
hare So human-like, so stealthy light, 


Where one lone cabin still stoops 
_ down 
Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta 
town. 


That great graveyard of hopes! of 
‘men 
Who sought for hidden veins of gold; 
DE young men suddenly grown old— 
D£ old men dead, despairing when 
The gold was just within their hold! 
That storied land, whereon the light 
Of other days gleams faintly still; 
3omelike the halo of a hill 

That lifts above the falling night; 
That warm, red, rich and human 
' land, 

That flesh-red soil, that warm red 
sand, 
Where one gray miner still sits down! 
‘Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta 
town! 


~“T know the vein is here!’’ he said; 

For twenty years, for thirty years! 

While far away fell tears on tears 

From wife and babe who mourned 

him dead. 

No gold! No gold! And he grew 

old 

And crept to toil with bended head 

Amid a graveyard of his dead, 

Still seeking for that vein of gold. 

| Then lo, came laughing down the 
years 

A: sweet grandchild! 

| tears 

He laughed. He set her by the door 

‘The while he toiled; his day’s toil o’er 

‘He held her chubby cheeks between 


24 


Between his 


The Gold that Grew bp Shasta Town 


369 


His hard palms, laughed; and laugh- 
ing cried. 

You should have seen, have heard 
and seen 

His boyish joy, his stout old pride, 

When toil was done and he sat down 

At night, below sweet Shasta town! 


At last his strength was gone. ‘“‘No 
more! 
Iminenomore. I plant me now 
A vine and fig-tree; worn and old, 
I seek no more my vein of gold. 
But, oh, I sigh to give it o’er; 
These thirty years of toil! somehow 
It seems so hard; but now, no more.”’ 


And so the old man set him down 
To plant, by pleasant Shasta town. 
And it was pleasant; piped the quail 
The full year through. The chip- 

munk stole, 
His whiskered nose and tossy tail 
Full buried in the sugar-bowl. 


And purple grapes and grapes of 
gold 
Swung sweet as milk. 
trees 
Grew brown with laden honey-bees. 
Oh! it was pleasant up and down 
That vine-set hill of Shasta town. 


While orange- 


| And then that cloud-burst came! 


Ah, me! 
That torn ditch there! 
land 
| Rolled seaward like a rope of sand, 
Nor left one leafy vine or tree 


The mellow 


379 


Of all that Eden nestling down 
Below that moat by Shasta town! 


The old man sat his cabin’s sill, 
His gray head bowed to hands and 
knee; 
The child went forth, sang pleasantly, 
Where burst the ditch the day before, 
And picked some pebbles from the 
hill. 
The old man moaned, moaned o’er 
and o’er: 
““My babe is dowerless, and I 
Must fold my helpless hands and die! 
Ah, me! What curse comes ever 
down 
On me and mine at Shasta town.”’ 


“Good Grandpa, see!”’ the glad 
child said, 
And so leaned softly to his side,— 
Laid her gold head to his gray head, 
And merry voiced and cheery cried, 
“Good Grandpa, do not weep, but 
see! 


The Gold that Grew by Shasta Town 


I’ve found a peck of orange seeds! 
I searched the hill for vine or tree; 
Not one!—not even oats or weeds; 
But, oh! such heaps of orange seed 


“Come, good Grandpa! No 

once you said 

That Gedis good. So this may tea 

That we must plant each seed, a 
each 

May grow to be an orange tree. 

Now, good Grandpa, please rai 
your head, 

And please come plant the seeds wi 
me,” 

And prattling thus, or like to this, 

The child thrust her full hands in h: 


He sprang, sprang upright as of ol 
“Tis gold! 'tis gold! my hidden vei 
"Tis gold for you, sweet babe, ’t 

gold! 
Yea, God is good; we plant again!” 
So one old miner still sits down 
By pleasant, sunlit Shasta town. 


THE SIOUX CHIEF’S DAUGHTER 


Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; 
Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro 
By peaks pre-eminent in snow; 

A sounding river rushes past, 

So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 


A lone lodge tops the windy hill; 
A tawny maiden, mute and still, 
Stands waiting at the river’s brink, 
As eager, fond as you can think. 

A mighty chief is at her feet; 


She does not heed him wooing so— 
She hears the dark, wild waters floy 
She waits her lover, tall and fleet, 

From out far beaming hills of snow. 


He comes! The grim chief spring 
in air— 
His brawny arm, his blade is bare. 


She turns; she lifts her rounc 
brown hand; 


je looks him fairly in the face; 

ie moves her foot a little pace 

nd says, with calmness and com- 
_ mand, 

There’s blood enough in this lorn 
| land. 


“But see! a test of strength and 
skill, 

‘f courage and fierce fortitude; 

‘o breast and wrestle with the rude 
‘nd storm-born waters, now I will 
iestow you both. 


“ _ . Stand either side! 
nd you, my burly chief, I know 
Vould choose my right. Now peer 
you low 
\cross the waters wild and wide. 
‘ee! leaning so this morn I spied 
ted berries dip yon farther side. 


"See, dipping, dripping in the 
stream! 
twin boughs of autumn. berries 
gleam! 


“Now this, brave men, shall be the 


test 
hw in the stream, bear 
teeth 
Toc 


Junge in! and he who bears him Hest, 
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 
The first, shall have both heart and 
Mhand.”’ 

_ Two tawny men, tall, brown and 
thewed 

Like antique bronzes rarely seen, 
Shot up like flame. 


The Sioux Chief's Daughter cyl 


She stood between 
Like fixed, impassive fortitude. 
Then one threw robes with sullen air, 
And wound red fox-tails in his hair; 
But one with face of proud delight 
Entwined a wing of snowy white. 
She stood between. She sudden 
gave 
The sign and each impatient brave 
Shot sudden in the sounding wave; 
The startled waters gurgled round; 
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen 
sound. 


Oh, then uprose the love that slept! 

Oh, then her heart beat loud and 
strong! 

Oh, then the proud love pent up long 

Broke forth in wail upon the air! 

And leaning there she sobbed and 
wept, 

With dark face mantled in her hair. 


She sudden lifts her leaning brow. 
He nears the shore, her love! and now 
The foam flies spouting from the face 
That laughing lifts from out the race. 


The race is won, the work is done! 
She sees the kingly crest of snow; 
She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
She cries aloud, she laughing cries, 
And tears are streaming from her eyes: 
‘“‘O splendid, kingly Idaho! 

I kiss thy lifted crest of snow. 


“My tall and tawny king, come back! 

Come swift, O sweet! why falter so? 

Come! Come! What thing has 
crossed your track? 


372 


I kneel to all the gods I know. . 
Great Spirit, what is this I dread? 
Why, there is blood! the wave is red! 
That wrinkled chief, outstripped in 
race, 
Dives down, and, hiding from my 
face, 
Strikes underneath. 
i . He rises now! 
Now ea my hero’s berry bough, 
And lifts aloft his red fox head, 
And signals he has won for me. . 
Hist, softly! Let him come and see. 


“Oh, come! 
hero, come! 
Oh, come! and I will be your bride, 
Despite yon chieftain’s craft and 
might. 
Come back to me! my lips are 
dumb, 
My hands are helpless with despair; 
The hair you kissed, my long, strong 
hair, 
Is reaching to the ruddy tide, 
That you may clutch it when you 
come. 


my white-crowned 


“How slow he buffets back the 
wave! 
‘O God, he sinks! O Heaven! save 
My brave, brave king! He rises! 


see! 

Hold fast, my hero! Strike for me. 

Strike straight this way! Strike firm 
and strong! 

Hold fast your strength. It is not 
long— 

O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is 
gone! 


The Sioux Chiet’s Baughter 


“And did I dream and do I wake 
Or did I wake and now but dreami 
And what is this crawls from # 

stream? 
Oh, here is some mad, mad mistak« 
What, you! the red fox at my feet? 
You first, and failing from the race? 
What! You have brought me berri 
red? 
What! You have brought your bric 
a wreath? 
You sly red fox with wrinkled face- 
That blade has blood between yot 
teeth! 


“Lie low! lie low! while I lean o’ 
And clutch your red blade to th 
shore. 
Ha! ha! 
that! 
Ha! ha! So, through your cowar 
throat 
The full day shines! .. . 
fox-tails float 
Far down, and I but mock thereat. 


Take that! take that an 


Tw 


“But what is this? 
crest 
Climbs out the willows of the west, 
All dripping from his streaming hair’ 
’Tis he! My hero brave and fair! 
His face is lifting to my face, ; 
And who shall now dispute the race! 


What snowy 


“The gray hawks pass, O love! and 


doves ' 
O’er yonder lodge shall coo their 
loves. 
My hands shall heal your wounded 
breast, 


And in yon tall lodge two shall rest.” 


‘And God saw the light that tt was 
good.”’ 


I heard a tale long, long ago, 
Where I had gone apart to pray 
3y Shasta’s pyramid of snow, 
‘hat touches me unto this day. 
know the fashion is to say 
\n Arab tale, an Orient lay; 
3ut when the grocer rings my gold 
Jn counter, flung from greasy hold, 
Je cares not from Acadian vale 
% comes, or savage mountain 
im chine;— 
3ut this the Shastan tale: 


- Once in the olden, golden days, 

When men and beasts companioned, 
when 

\ll went in peace about their ways 

Nor God had hid His face from men 

3ecause man slew his brother beast 

To make his most unholy feast, 

A gray coyote, monkish cowled, 

Upraised his face and wailed and 
howled 

The while he made his patient round; 

Por lo! the red men all lay dead, 

Stark, frozen on the ground. 


The very dogs had fled the storm, 

‘A mother with her long, meshed hair 

Bound tight about her baby’s form, 

Lay frozen, all her body bare. 

Her last shred held her babe in place; 

Her last breath warmed her baby’s 

| face. 

Then, as the good monk brushed the 
snow . 


Q Shasta Tale of Lobe 
A SHASTA TALE OF LOVE 


373 


Aside from mother loving so, 

He heard God from the mount above 

Speak through the clouds and loving 
say: 

“Yea, all is dead but Love.” 


“Now take up Love and cherish 

her, 

And seek the white man with all 
speed, 

And keep Love warm within thy fur; 

For oh, he needeth love indeed. 

Take all and give him freely, all 

Of love you find, or great or small; 

For he is very poor in this, 

So poor he scarce knows what love is.”’ 

The gray monk raised Love in his 
paws 

And sped, a ghostly streak of gray, . 

To where the white man was. 


But man uprose, enraged to see 

A gaunt wolf track his new-hewn 
town. 

He called his dogs, and angrily 

He brought his flashing rifle down. 

Then God said: ‘‘On his hearth- 
stone lay 

The seed of Love, and come away; 

The seed of Love, ’tis needed so, 

And pray that it may grow and 
grow.” 

And so the gray monk crept at night 

And laid Love down, as God had 
said, 

A faint and feeble light. 


So faint, indeed, the cold hearth- 
stone 


374 


It seemed would chill starved Love 
to death; 

And so the monk gave all his own 

And crouched and fanned it with his 
breath 

Until a red cock crowed for day. 

Then God said: “Rise up, come 
away. 

The beast obeyed, but yet looked 
back 

All morn along his lonely track; 

For he had left his all in all, 

His own Love, for that famished 
Love 

Seemed so exceeding small. 


And God said: 
again.” 
But ever, where a campfire burned, 
And he beheld strong, burly men 
At meat, he sat him down and 
turned 
His face to wail and wail and mourn 


“Look not back 


Love in the Sierras 


The Love laid on that cold heart 
stone. 

Then God was angered, and Gi 
said: 

“Be thou a beggar then; thy head 

Hath been a fool, but thy swift fee 

Because they bore sweet Love, sha 
be 

The fleetest of all fleet.’’ 


And ever still about the camp, 
By chine or plain, in heat or hail, 
A homeless, hungry, hounded tramy 
The gaunt coyote keeps his wail. 
And ever as he wails he turns 
His head, looks back and yearns an 

yearns 
For lost Love, laid that wintry day 
To warm a hearthstone far away. 
Poor loveless, homeless beast, I kee 
Your lost Love warm for you, anc 
too, 
A cafion cool and deep. 


LOVE IN THE SIERRAS 


“No, not so lonely now—I love 
A forest maiden; she is mine 
And on Sierra’s slopes of pine, 
The vines below, the snows above, 
A solitary lodge is set 
Within a fringe of water’d firs; 
And there my wigwam fires burn, 
Fed by a round brown patient hand, 
That small brown faithful hand of 

hers 

That never rests till my return. 
The yellow smoke is rising yet; 
Tiptoe, and see it where you stand 
Lift like a column from the land. 


“There are no sea-gems in her hair 
No jewels fret her dimpled hands, 
And half her bronzen limbs are bare 
Her round brown arms have goldet 
bands, 

Broad, rich, and by her cunning 
hands 

Cut from the yellow virgin ore, 

And she does not desire more. 

I wear the beaded wampum belt 

That she has wove—the sable pelt — 

That she has fringed red threads 
around; 

And in the morn, when men are not, 


wake the valley with the shot 

‘hat brings the brown deer to the 

ground. 

nd she beside the lodge at noon 

ings with the wind, while baby 

_ swings 

fn sea-shell cradle by the bough— 

ings low, so like the clover sings 

Vith swarm of bees; I hear her now, 

' see her sad face through the 

im” moon... . 

juch songs!—would earth had more 

of such! 

the has not much to say, and she 

Afts never voice to question me 

nm aught I do. .sand: that is 
much. 

‘love her for her patient trust, 

\nd my love’s forty-fold return— 


His eyes are dim, he gropes his way, 
dis step is doubtful, slow, 
And now men pass him by today: 
But forty years ago— 
Why forty years ago I say 
91d Gib was good to know. 


For, forty years ago today, 

Where cars glide to and fro, 

The Modoc held the world at bay, 
d blood was on the snow. 

Ay, forty years ago I say 

Old Gib was good to know. 


_ Full forty years ago today 
This valley lay in flame; 

Up yonder pass and far away, 
Red ruin swept the same: 


@ld Gib at Castle Rocks 


3795 


A value I have not to learn 
As you... at least, as many 
insta 


. “She is not over tall or fair; 

Her breasts are curtained by her 
hair, 

And sometimes, through the silken 
fringe, 

I see her bosom’s wealth, like wine 

Burst through in luscious ruddy 
tinge— 

And allits wealth and worth are mine. 

I know not that one drop of blood 

Of prince or chief is in her veins: 

I simply say that she is good, 

And loves me with pure womanhood. 
. When that is said, why, what 
remains?’’ 


OLD GIB AT CASTLE ROCKS 


Two women, with their babes at play, 
Were butchered in black shame. 


’Twas then with gun and flashing 
eye 
Old Gib loomed like a pine; 
‘‘Now will you fight, or will you fly? 
I'll take a fight in mine. 
Come let us fight; come let us die 
There came just twenty-nine. 


ad 
. 


Just twenty-nine who dared to die, 
And, too, a motley crew 
Of half-tamed red men; would they 
fly, 
Or would they fight him too? 
No time to question or reply, 
That was a time to do. 


376 


Up, up, straight up where thunders 

grow 

And growl in Castle Rocks, 

Straight up till Shasta gleamed in 
snow, 

And shot red battle shocks; 

Till clouds lay shepherded below, 

A thousand ghostly flocks. 


Yet up and up Old Gibson led, 
No looking backward then; 
His bare feet bled; the rocks were red 
From torn, bare-footed men. 
Yet up, up, up, till well nigh dead— 
The Modoc in his den! 


Then cried the red chief from his 
height, 
“Now, white man, what would you? 
Behold my bundteds for the fight, 
But yours so faint and few: 
We are as rain, as hail at night 
But you, you are as dew. 


“White man, go back; I beg go 
back, 
I will not fight so few; 
Yet if I hear one rifle crack, 
Be that the doom of you! 
Back! down, I say, back down your 
track, 


Back, down! What else to do? 


“What else to do? Avenge or die! 
Brave men have died before: 
And you shall fight, or you shall fly. 


Glv Gib at Castle Rocks 


You find no women more, 
No babes to butcher now; for I 
Shall storm your Castle’s door!’ 


Then bang! whiz bang! whiz bar 
and ping! 
Six thousand feet below, 
Sweet Sacramento ceased to sing, 
But wept and wept, for oh! 
These arrows sting as adders sting, 
And they kept stinging so. 


Then one man cried: ‘Brave me 
have died, 

And we can die as they; 

But ah! my babe, my one year' 
bride! 

And they so far away. 

Brave Captain, lead us back—aside, 


Must all here die today?”’ 


His face, his hands, his body bled: 
Yea, no man there that day— 
No white man there but turned te 
red, 
In that fierce fatal fray; 
But Gib with set teeth only said: 
‘No; we came here to stay!”’ 


They stayed and stayed, and 
Modocs stayed, 
But when the night came on, 
No white man there was now afraid, 
The last Modoc had gone; 
His ghost in Castle Rocks was laid 
Till everlasting dawn. 


A blazing home, a blood-soaked 
| hearth; 

Fair woman’s hair with blood upon! 
That Ishmaelite of all the earth 

Has like a cyclone, come and gone— 
His feet are as the blighting dearth; 
His hands are daggers drawn. 


| 


“To horse! to horse!’’ the rangers 
shout, 
And red revenge is on his track! 
The black-haired Bedouin en route 
Looks like a long, bent line of black. 
He does not halt nor turn about; 
He scorns to once look back. 


But on! right on that line of black, 
Across the snow-white, sand-sown 
pass; 
‘The bearded rangers on their track 
Bear thirsty sabers bright as glass. 
Yet not one red man there looks back; 
His nerves are braided brass. 


At last, at last, their mountain came 

To clasp its children in their flight! 

Up, up from out the sands of flame 

They clambered, bleeding to their 
height; 

This savage summit, now so tame, 

‘Their lone star, that dread night! 

| “Huzzah! Dismount!’’ the cap- 
tain cried. 

‘Huzzah! the rovers cease to roam! 

The river keeps yon farther side, 

A roaring cataract of foam. 

They die, they die for those who died 

Last night by hearth and home!”’ 


Comanche 


377 


COMANCHE 


His men stood still beneath the 

steep; 

The high, still moon stood like a nun. 

The horses stood as willows weep; 

Their weary heads drooped every one. 

But no man there had thought of 
sleep; 

Each waited for the sun. 


Vast nun-white moon! Her silver 
rill 
Of snow-white peace she ceaseless 
poured; 


The rock-built battlement grew still, 

The deep-down river roared and 
roared. 

But each man there with iron will 

Leaned silent on his sword. 


Hark! See what light starts from 
the steep! 
And hear, ah, hear that piercing 
sound. 


It is their lorn death-song they keep 
In solemn and majestic round. 

The red fox of these deserts deep 

At last is run to ground. 


Oh, it was weird,—that wild, pent 

horde! 

Their death-lights, their death-wails 
each one. 

The river in sad chorus roared 

And boomed like some great funeral 
gun. 

The while each ranger nursed his 
sword 

And waited for the sun. 


378 


Montara 


MONTARA 


Montara, Naples of my West! 
Montara, Italy to me! 
Montara, newest, truest, best 
Of all brave cities by 
sea! 


this 


I’d rather one wee bungalow 
WherelI mid-March may sit me down 
And watch thy warm waves come and 
£0, 
Than two whole blocks of Boston 
town. 


THE LARGER COLLEGE 


ON LAYING THE COLLEGE CORNER-STONE 


Where San Diego seas are warm, 
Where winter winds from warm 
Cathay 
Sing sibilant, where blossoms swarm 
With Hybla’s bees, we come to lay 
This tribute of the truest, best, 
The warmest daughter of the West. 


Here Progress plants her corner- 
stone 
Against this warm, still, Cortez wave. 
In ashes of the Aztec’s throne, 
In tummals of the Toltec’s grave, 
We plant this stone, and from the sod 
Pick painted fragments of his god. 


Here Progress lifts her torch to 

teach 

God’s pathway through the pass of 
care; 

Her altar-stone Balboa’s Beach, 

Her incense warm, sweet, perfumed 
air; 

Such incense! where white strophes 
reach 

And lap and lave Balboa’s Beach! 


We plant this stone as some small 
seed 
Is sown at springtime, warm with 
earth; 
We sow this seed as some good deed 
Is sown, to grow until its worth 
Shall grow, through rugged steeps of 
time, 
To touch the utmost star sublime. 


We lift this lighthouse by the sea, 

The westmost sea, the westmost 
shore, 

To guide man’s ship of destiny 

When Scylla and Charybdis roar; 

To teach him strength, to proudly 
teach 

God’s grandeur, where His white 
palms reach: 


To teach not Sybil books alone; 
Man’s books are but a climbing 
stair, 
Lain step by step, like stairs of stone; 
The stairway here, the temple 
there— . 


-Man’s lampad honor, and his trust, 
~The God who called him from the 
dust. 

Man’s books are but man’s 
Fe alphabet, 

} Beyond and on his lessons lie— 

_ The lessons of the violet, 

| The large gold letters of the sky; 

| The love of beauty, blossomed soil, 
The large content, the tranquil toil: 


The toil that nature ever taught, 
The patient toil, the constant stir, 
The toil of seas where shores are 
| wrought, 

! The toil of Christ, the carpenter; 


How swift this sand, gold-laden, 
runs! 

- How slow these feet, once swift and 

| firm! 

 Yecame as romping, rosy sons, 

~ Come jocund up at College term; 

_ Yecame so jolly, stormy, strong, 

Ye drown’d the roll-call with your 

song. 
But now ye lean a list’ning ear 
And—‘‘ Adsum! Adsum! 1 am here!” 


My brave world-builders of a world 
‘That tops the keystone, star of 
States, 
Allhail! Your battle flags are furled 
In fruitful peace. ‘I‘he golden gates 
~ Arewon. The jasper walls be yours. 


To the Pioneers 


379 


The toil of God incessantly 
By palm-set land or frozen sea. 


Behold this sea, that sapphire sky! 
Where nature does so much for man, 
Shall man not set his standard high, 
And hold some higher, holier plan? 
Some loftier plan than ever planned 
By outworn book of outworn land? 


Where God has done so much for 
man! 
Shall man for God do aught at all? 
The soul that feeds on books alone— 
I count that soul exceeding small 
That lives alone by book and creed,— 
A soul that has not learned to read. 


TO THE PIONEERS 


READ AT SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 


Your sun sinks down yon soundless 
shores. 

Night falls. But lo! your lifted eyes 

Greet gold outcroppings in the skies. 


Companioned with Sierra’s peaks 
Our storm-born eagle shrieks his scorn 
Of doubt or death, and upward seeks 
Through unseen worlds the coming 

morn. 
Or storm, or calm, or near, or far, 
His eye fixed on the morning star, 
He knows, as God knows, there is 
dawn; 
And so keeps on, and on, and on! 


So ye, brave men of bravest days, 
Fought on and on with battered shield, 


380 


Up bastion, rampart, till the rays 

Of full morn met ye on the field. 

Ye knew not doubt; ye only knew 

To do and dare, and dare and do! 
Ye knew that time, that God’s first- 

j born, 

Would turn the darkest night to 

morn. 


Ye gave your glorious years of 
youth 
And lived as heroes live—and die. 
Ye loved the truth, ye lived the truth; 
Ye knew that cowards only lie. 
Then heed not now one serpent’s hiss, 


6¢ 


We have worked our claims, 
We have spent our gold, 
Our barks are astrand on the bars: 
Weare battered and old, 
Yet at night we behold, 
Outcroppings of gold in the stars. 


Chorus 


Tho’ battered and old, 
Our hearts are bold, 

Yet oft do we repine; 

For the days of old, 

For the days of gold, 

For the days of forty-nine. 


49 


$6 49 9? ; 


Or trait’rous, trading, Judas kiss, 
Let slander wallow in his slime; 
Still leave the truth to God and time 


Worn victors, few and true, sucl 


clouds 
As track God’s trailing garment’s hen 
Where Shasta keeps shall be you 
shrouds, 
And ye shall pass the stars in them. 
Your tombs shall be while time en 
dures, 
Such hearts as only truth secures; 
Your everlasting monuments 
Sierra’s snow-topt battle tents, 


+e] 


Where the rabbits play, 


Where the quail all day 


Pipe on the chaparral hill; 


A few more days, 


And the last of us lays 
His pick aside and all is still. 


Chorus 


We are wreck and stray, 
We are cast away, 
Poor battered old hulks and spars; 
But we hope and pray, 
On the judgment day, 
We shall strike it up in the stars. 


SAN DIEGO 


“‘O for a beaker of the warm South; 
The true, the blushful hypocrine!”’ 


What shall be said of the sun-born 
Pueblo? 


the sun? 


This town of St. James, of the cainth 


San Diego, 


This town sudden born in the path of 


As suddenly born as if shot froma a 


| Why, speak of her warmly; why, 
write her name down 
iWAs softer than sunlight, as warmer 
than wine! 
hWhy, speak of her bravely; this ulti- 
mate town 
With feet in the foam of the vast 
Argentine: 


Emerald, emerald, emerald Land; 

Land of the sun mists, land of the 
sea, 

Stately and stainless and storied and 
grand 

As cloud-mantled Hood in white 

} majesty— 

| Mother of States, we are worn, we are 

| gray— 

| Mother of men, we are going away. 


“ane of States, tall mother of 


Of peti of churches, of homes, of 
sweet rest, 
We are going away, we must journey 
~~ again, 
As of old we journeyed to the vast, far 
~~ West. 
We tent by the river, our feet once 
f more, 
Please God, are set for the ultimate 
“ms shore. 


‘| Mother, white mother, white Ore- 
gon 
1} In emerald kilt, with star-set crown 


Pioneers to the Great Emerald Land 


381 


The vast argent seas of the Aztec, 

of Cortez! 

The boundless white border of battle- 
torn lands— 

The fall of Napoleon, the rise of red 
Juarez— 

The footfalls of nations are heard on 
her sands. 


PIONEERS TO THE GREAT EMERALD LAND 


READ AT PORTLAND, 1896 


Of sapphire, say is it night? Is it 
dawn? 

Say what of the night? Is it well up 
and down? 

We are going away... . 
yon high watch tower, 

Young men, strong men, say, what 
of the hour? 


From 


Young men, strong men, there is 

work to be done; 

Faith to be cherished, battles to fight, 

Victories won were never well won 

Save fearlessly won for God and the 
right. 

These cities, these homes, sweet peace 
and her spell 

Be ashes, but ashes, with the infidel. 


Have Faith, such Faith as your 

fathers knew, 

All else must follow if you have but 
Faith. 

Be true to their Faith, and you must 
be true. 

‘“‘Lo! I will be with you,” the Master 
saith. 


382 

Good by, dawn breaks; it is coming 
full day 

And one by one we strike tent and 
away. 


Good by. Slow folding our snow- 
white tents, 


Alaska 


Our dim eyes lift to the farther shore 

And never these riddled, gray regi 
ments 

Shall answer full roll-call any more. 


Yet never a doubt, nay, never ¢ 


fear 
Of old, or now, knew the Pioneer. 


ALASKA 


Ice built, 

bounded, 

Such cold seas of silence! such room! 

Such snow-light, such sea ane con- 
founded 

With thunders that smite like a doom! 

Such grandeur! such glory! such 
gloom! 

Hear that boom! hear that deep dis- 
tant boom 

Of an avalanche hurled 

Down this unfinished world! 


ice bound and _ ice 


THE AMERICAN 


“Ten thousand miles of mobile sea— 
This sea of all seas blent as one. © 
Wide, unbound book of mystery, 
Of awe, of sibyl prophecy, 

Ere yet a ghost or misty ken 
Of God’s far, first beginning when 
Vast darkness lay upon the deep.” 


“He looked to heaven, God; but she» 


Saw only his face and the sea.”’ 


Ice seas! 
spaces 

In splendor of white, as God’s throne! 

Ice worlds to the pole! and ice places 

Untracked, and unnamed, and un- 


known! 

Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, 
the groan 

Of the ice-gods in pain! Hear the 
moan 


Of yon ice mountain hurled 
Down this unfinished world. 


OCEAN 

“Aye, is done, 
sun 

Sinks wounded unto death tonight; 


day 


and ice strmmits! ice 


the dyingh 


A great, hurt swan, he sinks 


rest, 

His wings all crimson, blood his. 
breast! 

With wide, low wings, reached lett 
and right, 

He sings, and night and swan are 
one— 

One huge, black swan of Helicon.” 


. 


: Twilight at the Hights 
: 
f TWILIGHT AT THE HIGHTS 


The brave young city by the Bal- 
boa seas 


383 


Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy 
dusk! 


Lies compassed about by the hosts of | The wolf and the dog; dear incense 
fe night— hour 
Lies humming, low, like a hive of | When Mother Earth hath a smell of 
: bees; musk, 
‘And the day lies dead. And its | And things of the spirit assert their 
spirit’s flight power— 
Is far to the west; while the golden When candles are set to burn in the 
| bars west— 
‘That bound it are broken toa dust of | Set head and foot to the day at 
stars. rest. 
ARBOR DAY 
Against our golden orient dawns With robes of green in healthful fold; 


We lift 2 living light today, 

‘That shall outshine the splendid 
bronze 

That lords and lights that lesser Bay. 


Sweet Paradise was sown with 
: trees; 
Thy very name, lorn Nazareth, 
“Means woods, means sense of birds 
and bees, 
‘And song of leaves with lisping 
breath. 


: 
| God gave us Mother Earth, full 
| blest 


We tore the green robes from her 
breast! 
We sold our mother’s robes for gold! 


We sold her garments fair, and she 
Lies shamed and naked at our feet! 
In penitence we plant a tree; 

We plant the cross and count it meet. 


Lo, here, where Balboa’s waters 
toss, 
Here in this glorious Spanish bay, 
We plant the cross, the Christian 
cross, 
The Crusade Cross of Arbor Day. 


CALIFORNIA’S CUP OF GOLD 


The golden poppy is God’s gold, 


The gold that lifts, nor weighs us 


down, 


The gold that knows no miser’s hold, 
The gold that banksnotin the town, 


But singing, laughing, freely spills 

Its hoard far up the happy hills; 

Far up, far down, at every turn.— 

What beggar has not gold to 
burn! 


384 : By the Balboa Seas 
BY THE BALBOA SEAS 


The golden fleece is at our feet, Behold this mighty sea of seas! 
Our hills are girt in sheen of gold; The ages pass in silence by. 
Our golden flower-fields are sweet Gold apples of Hesperides 
With honey hives. A thousand-fold | Hang at our God-land gates for aye 
More fair our fruits on laden stem Our golden shores have golden keys 
Than Jordan tow’rd Jerusalem. Wheresound and sing the Balboa sea 


MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS 


The broad magnolia’s blooms are Oh, vast white blossoms breathin 
white; love! 
Her blooms are large, as if the moon White bosom of my lady dead, 
Had lost her way some lazy night, In your white heaven overhead 


And lodged here till the afternoon. I look, and learn to look above. 


CALIFORNIA’S CHRISTMAS 


The stars are large as lilies! Morn Soft sea winds sleep on yonde 
Seems some illumined story— tide; 
The story of our Savior born, You hear some boatmen rowing. 
Told from old turrets hoary— Their sisters’ hands trail o’er the side 
The full moon smiling tips a horn They toy with warm waves flowing 
And hies to bed in glory! Their laps are laden deep and wide | 


From rose-trees green and growing. 
My sunclad city walks in light 
And lasting summer weather; 
Red roses bloom on bosoms white 
And rosy cheeks together. 
If you should smite one cheek, still 


Such roses white! such roses red! 
Such roses richly yellow! | 
The air is like a perfume fed 
From autumn fruits full mellow— | 


inten x : But see! a brother bends his head, — 
For she will turn the other. An oar forgets its fellow! | 


The thronged warm street tides to 


and fro Give me to live in land like this, | 
And Love, roseclad, discloses. Nor let me wander further; | 
The only snowstorm we shall know Some sister in some boat of bliss 
Is this white storm of roses— And I her only brother— 
It seems like Maytime, mating so, Sweet paradise on earth it is; 


And—Nature counting noses. I would not seek another. 


THE MEN OF 


| Those brave old bricks of forty- 

nine! 

What lives they lived! what deaths 

they died! 

is thousand cafions, darkling wide 

3elow Sierra’s slopes of pine, 

| ah them now. And they who 

died 

\long the far, dim, desert route— 

Their ghosts are many. Let them 
keep 

Their vast possessions. The Piute, 

The tawny warrior, will dispute 

No boundary with these. And I 

Who saw them live, who felt them 

: die, 

Say, let their unplow’d ashes sleep, 

‘Untouch’d by man, on plain or steep. 


| The bearded, sunbrown’d men who 
bore 

‘The burden of that frightful year, 
Who toil’d, but did not gather store, 
‘They shall not be forgotten. Drear 
lana white, the plains of Shoshonee 
Shall point us to that farther shore, 
And long, white, shining lines of 
’ bones, 

| Make needless sign or white mile- 
stones. 


The wild man’s yell, the groaning 
wheel; 

The train that moved like drifting 
barge; 
The dust that rose up like a cloud— 
Like smoke of distant battle! Loud 
|The great whips rang like shot, and 
| steel 


25 


The Men of Forty-Nine 


385 
FORTY-NINE 


Of antique fashion, crude and large, 
Flash’d back asin some battle charge. 


They sought, yea, they did find 

their rest. 

Along that long and lonesome way, 

Tthese brave men buffet’d the West 

With lifted faces. Full were they 

Of great endeavor. Brave and true 

As stern Crusader clad in steel, 

They died a-field as it was fit. 

Made strong with hope, they dared to 
do 

Achievement that a host today 

Would stagger at, stand back and 
reel, 

Defeated at the thought of it. 


What brave endeavor to endure! 

What patient hope, when hope was 
past! 

What still surrender at the last, 

A thousand leagues from hope! how 
pure 

They lived, how proud they died! 

How generous with life! The wide 

And gloried age of chivalry 

Hath not one page like this to 
me. 


Let all these golden days go by, 
In sunny summer weather. I 
But think upon my buried brave, 
And breathe beneath another sky. 
Let Beauty glide in gilded car, 
And find my sundown seas afar, 
Forgetful that ’tis but one grave 
From eastmost to the westmost wave. 


386 


Yea, remember! The still tears 
That o’er uncoffin’d faces fell! 
The final, silent, sad farewell! 
God! these are with me all the years! 
They shall be with meever. I 
Shall not forget. I hold a trust. 
They are part of my existence. When 
Swift down the shining iron track 


Custer 


You sweep, and fields of corn flag 
back, 

And herds of lowing steers move by, 

And men laugh loud, in mute mis 
trust, | 

I turn to other days, to men 

Who made a pathway with thei 
dust. | 


CUSTER 


Oh, it were better dying there, 

On glory’s front, with trumpet’s blare, 

And battle’s shout blent wild about— 

The sense of sacrifice, the roar 

Of war! The soul might well leap 
out— 


THE HEROES 


O perfect heroes of the earth, 

That conquer’d forests, harvest set! 

O sires, mothers of my West! 

How shall we count your proud be- 
quest? 

But yesterday ye gave us birth: 

We eat your hard-earned bread to- 
day, 

Nor toil nor spin nor make regret, 

But praise our petty selves and say 

How great weare. We all forget 

The still endurance of the rude 

Unpolish’d sons of solitude. 


What strong, uncommon men were 
these, 
These settlers hewing to the seas! 
Great horny-handed men and tan; 


The brave, white soul leap boldly 
out 

The door of wounds, and up the stai 

Of heaven to God’s open door, 

While yet the knees were bent ir 
prayer. 


OF AMERICA 


Men blown from many a_ barren 
land 

Beyond the sea; men red of hand, 

And men in love, and men in debt, 

Like David’s men in battle set; 


And men whose very hoares had 


died, 
Who only sought these woods to 
hide 
Their wretchedness, held in the van; 
Yet every man among them stood 
Alone, along that sounding wood, 
And every man somehow a man. 


They push’d the mailéd wood aside, | 


They toss’d the forest like a toy, 


That grand forgotten race of men—_ 
The boldest band that yet has been 


Together since the siege of Troy. 


Hail, Independence of old ways! 
Yd worlds! The West declares the 
| West, 
Jer storied ways, her gloried days, 
3ecause the West deserveth best. 
Chis new, true land of noblest deeds 
Jas rights, has sacred rights and 
needs. 


_ Sing, ye who may, this natal day; 

9f dauntless thought, of men of 

_ might, 

Tn lesser lands and far away. 

But truth is truth and right is right. 

And, oh, to sing like sounding flood, 

These boundless boundaries writ in 
blood! 


Three thousand miles of battle 
deeds, 
Of burning Moscows, 
snows; 
Then years and years of British 
| greed, 
Of grasping greed; of lurking foes. 
Isay no story ever writ 
Or said, or sung, surpasses it! 


Cossacks, 


And who has honored us, and who 
Has bravely dared stand up and say: 

_ “Give ye to Cesar Ceesar’s due?”’ 
Unpaid, unpensioned, mute and gray, 


Some few survivors of the brave, 
Still hold enough land for a grave. 


_ How much they dared, how much 
| they won— 


Why, o’er your banner of bright 


stars, 


“The Fourth’ in Oregon 
“THE FOURTH” IN OREGON 


387 


Their star should be the blazing sun 

Above the battle star of Mars. 

Here, here beside brave Whitman’s 
dust, 

Let us be bravely, frankly just. 


The mountains from the first were 
so. 
The mountains from the first were 
free. 
They ever laid the tyrant low, 
And kept the boon of liberty. 
The levels of the earth alone 
Endured the tyrant, bore the throne. 


The levels of the earth alone 
Bore Sodoms, Babylons of crime, 
And all sad cities overthrown 
Along the surging surf of time. 
The coward, slave, creeps in the fen: 
God’s mountains only cradle men. 


Aye, wise and great was Washing- 

ton, 

And brave the men of Bunker Hill; 

Most brave and worthy every one, 

In work and faith and fearless will 

And brave endeavor for the right, 

Until yon stars burst through their 
night. 


Aye, wise and good was Washing- 

ton. 

Yet when he laid his sword aside, 

The bravest deed yet done was done. 

And when in stately strength and 
pride 

He took the plow and turned the mold 

He wrote God’s autograph in gold. 


388 


He wrought the fabled fleece of 
gold 
In priceless victories of peace, 
With plowshare set in mother mold; 
Then gathering the golden fleece 
About his manly, martial breast, 
This farmer laid him down to rest. 


O! this was godlike! And yet, who 
Of all men gathered here today 
Has not drawn sword as swift as true, 
Then laid its reddened edge away, 
And took the plow, and turned the 
mold 
To sow yon sunny steeps with gold. 


Aye, this true valor! Sing who will 
Of battle charge, of banners borne 
Triumphant up the blazing hill 
- On battle’s front, of banners torn, 
Of horse and rider torn and rent, 

Red regiment on regiment. 


Yet this were boy’s play to that 
man 
Who, far out yonder lone frontier, 
With wife and babe fought in the van, 
Fought on, fought on, year after year. 
No brave, bright flag to cheer the 
brave, 
No farewell gun above his grave. 


I say such silent pioneers 
Who here set plowshare to the sun 
And silent gave their sunless years 
Were kings of heroes every one. 
No Brandywine, no Waterloo 
E’er knew one hero half so true! 


, 


y 


A nation’s honor for our dead, 
God’s pity for the stifled pain; 


“The Fourth” in Cregon | 


And tears as ever woman shed, 

Sweet woman’s tears for maimed or 
slain. 

But man’s tears for the mute, un- 
known, 

Who fights alone, who falls alone. 


The very bravest of the brave, 
The hero of all lands to me? | 
Far up yon yellow lifting wave 
His brave ship cleaves the golden 
sea. | 
And gold or gain, or never gain, 
No argosy sails there in vain. 


And who the coward? 
he, 
Who turns his back upon the 
field, 
Who wears the slavish livery 
Of town or city, sells his shield 
Of honor, as his ilk of old 
Sold body, soul, for British gold. 


Hessian 


My heroes, comrades of the field, | 
Content ye here; here God to you, 
Whatever fate or change may yield, 
Has been most generous and true. 1 
Yon everlasting snow-peaks stand 


His sentinels about this land. 


Yon bastions of God’s house are : 
white 

As heaven’s porch with heaven’s | 
peace. 

Behold His portals bathed in light! 

Behold at hand the golden fleece! | 

Behold the fatness of the land 

On every hill, on every hand! 


Gn Answer 


Yon bannered snow-peaks point 
and plead 


389 


Of peace, God’s everlasting creed 
Of love and brotherhood of man. 


God’s upward path, God’s upward | Thou mantled magistrates in white, 


plan 


Give us His light! Give us His light! 


AN ANSWER 


Well! who shall lay hand on my 
harp but me, 
Or shall chide my song from the 
sounding trees? 
The passionate sun and the resolute 
sea, 
Thesewere my masters, and only these. 


These were my masters, and only 
these, 
And these from the first I obey’d, and 
they 
Shall command me now, and I shall 
obey 
As a dutiful child that is proud to 
please. 


There never were measures as true 

as the sun, 

The sea hath a song that is passingly 
sweet, 

And yet they repeat, and repeat, and 
repeat, 

The same old runes though the new 
years run. 


By unnamed rivers of the Oregon 
north, 
That roll dark-heaved into turbulent 
hills, 

I have made my home. . 
wild heart thrills 
With memories fierce, and a world 

. storms forth. 


The 


On eminent peaks that are dark 
with pine, 
And mantled in shadows and voiced 
in storms, 
I have made my camps: majestic 
gray forms 


Of the thunder-clouds, they were 
companions of mine; 


And face set to face, like to lords 

austere, 

Have we talk’d, red-tongued, of the 
mysteries 

Of the circling sun, of the oracled 
seas, 

While ye who judged me had mantled 
in fear. 


Some fragment of thought in the 

unfinish’d words; 

A cry of fierce freedom, and I claim 
no more. 

What more would you have from the 
tender of herds 

And of horse on an ultimate Oregon 
shore? 


From men unto God go forth, as 
alone, 
Where the dark pines talk in their 
tones of the sea 
To the unseen God in a harmony 
Of the under seas, and know the un- 
known. 


q FROM | 
THE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL, 
| 1893 


391 


FEED MY SHEEP 


Come, let us ponder; it is fit— 
Born of the poor, born to the poor— 
The poor of purse, the poor of wit 
Were first to find God’s opening 
door, 
Were first to climb the ladder, round 
by round, 
That fell from Heaven’s door unto the 
ground. 


UNDER THE 


Dear Bethlehem, the proud repose 
Of conscious worthiness is thine. 
Rest on. The Arab comes and 

goes, 
But farthest Saxon holds thy shrine 
More sacred in his stouter Christian 
hold 
‘Than England’s heaped-up iron house 
of gold. 


‘Thy stony hill is heaven’s stair; 
Thine every stone some storied gem. 

Oh, thou art fair and very fair, 

_ Thou holy, holy Bethlehem! 


God’s poor came first, the very first! 
God’s poor were first to see, to 
hear, 
To feel the light of heaven burst 
Full on their faces far or near, 
His poor were first to follow, first to 
fall! 
What if at last His poor stand first of 
all? 


SYRIAN STARS 


Thy very dust more dear than dust of 
gold 

Against my glorious sunset waters 
rolled. 


And here did glean the lowly Ruth; 
Here strode her grandson, fierce and 
fair, 

Strode forth in all his kingly youth 
And tore the ravening she-bear. 
Here Rachel sleeps. Here David, 

thirsting, cried 
For just one drop from yonder trick- 
ling tide. 


THE GROWING OF A SOUL 


Hear ye this parable. A man » 

Did plant a garden. Vine and tree 
Alike, in course of time, began 

To put forth fair and pleasantly. 


The rains of heaven, the persuading 
sun 

Came down alike on each and every 
one. 


393 


394 


Yet some trees wilful grew, and some 
Strong vines grew gaily in the 
sun, 
With gaudy leaves, that ever come 
To naught. And yet, each flaunt- 
ing one 
Did flourish on triumphantly and 
glow 
Like sunset clouds in all their moving 
show. 


But lo! the harvest found them not. 
The soul had perished from them. 
Mould 


How Beautiful are the feet 


And muck and leaf lay there to rot, 
And furnish nourishment untold 
To patient tree and lowly creepir 
vine 
That grew as grew the Husbandman 
design. 


Hear then this lesson; hear and heec 
I say that chaff shall perish; say 
Man’s soul is like unto a seed 
To grow unto the Judgment Day, 
It grows and grows if he will have: 
grow; 
It perishes if he must have it so. 


HOW BEAUTIFUL ARE THE FEET 


O star-built bridge, broad milky way! 
O star-lit, stately, splendid span! 
If but one star should cease to stay 
And prop its shoulders to God's 
plan— 
The man who lives for self, I say, 
He lives for neither God nor man. 


I count the columned waves at war 
With Titan elements; and they, 
In martial splendor, storm the bar 


And shake the world, these bits c 
spray. 
Each gives to each, and like the star 
Gets back its gift in tenfold pay. 


To get and give and give amain 
The rivers run and oceans roll. 
O generous and high-born rain | 
When raining as a splendid whole 
That man who lives for self, again, 
I say, has neither sense nor soul. 


THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT 


I think the birds in that far dawn 


Were still. The bustling town below 
Lay listening. Its strength was 
drawn 


To him, as tides that inward flow. 
All Galilee lay still. Far fields of 
corn 
Lay still to hear that silent, sacred 
morn. 


Be comforted; and blessed be 
The meek, the merciful, the pure 
Of heart; for they anal see, shat 
hear 
God’s mercy. So shall peace endure 
With God’s peacemakers. They 
are His, and they 
Shall be His children in the Jud 
ment Day. 


; 
: 
: 


In the Sweat of Thp Face 


395 


IN THE SWEAT OF THY FACE 


What sound was that? A pheasant’s 
| whir? 

| What stroke was that? Lean low 
| thine ear. 

Is that the stroke of the carpenter, 

| That far, faint echo that we hear? 
Is that the sound that sometime 
Bedouins tell 

Of hammer stroke as from His hand 
| it fell? 


Ts it the stroke of the carpenter, 

| Through eighteen hundred years 
) and more 

Still sounding down the hallowed stir 
| Of patient toil; as when He wore 
The leathern dress,—the echo of a 
: sound 

That thrills for aye the toiling, sensate 
_ ground? 


4 
O land of temples, land of tombs! 

_ O tawny land, O lion dead! 

q silent land of silent looms; 

_ Of kingly garments torn to shred! 
O land of storied wonder still, as 
| when 

Fair Joseph stood the chiefest of all 


men! 


Bios 

‘The Christ in Egypt! Egypt and 

_ Her mystic star-built Pyramids! 
Her shoreless, tiger seas of sand! 

_ Her Sphynx with fixed and weary 
: lids! 


Hear Mary weaving! Listen! Hear 
The thud of loom at weaving 
time 
In Nazareth. I weave this dear 
Tradition with my lowly rhyme. 
Believing everywhere that she may 
hear 
The sound of toil, sweet Mary bends 
an ear. 


Yea, this the toil that Jesus knew; 
Yet we complain if we must bear. 
Are we more dear? Are we more 

true? 
Give us, O God, and do not spare! 
Give us to bear as Christ and Mary 

bore 
With toil by leaf-girt Nazareth of 

yore! 


THE CHRIST IN EGYPT 


Her red and rolling Nile of yellow 
sheaves 

Where Moses cradled ’mid his lily 
leaves. 


Her lorn, dread temples of the dead 
Had waited, as mute milestones 
wait 
By some untraversed way unread, 
Until the King, or soon or late, 
Should come that tomb-built way and 
silent pass 
To read their signs above the sand- 
sown grass. 


396 


Behold! Amid this majesty 
Of ruin, at the dust-heaped tomb 
Of vanity came Christ to see 


Earth’s emptiness, the dark death 


room 


Of haughtiness, of kingly pomp, of 


greed, 


Of gods of gold or stone, or storied 


creed. 


Atwaiting the Resurrection at Karnak 


And this His first abiding-place! 
And these dread scenes His child 
hood’s toys! 
What wonder at that thoughtfi 
face? , 
That boy face never yet a boy’s? 
What wonder that the elders mar 
velled when 
A boy spake in the Temple unto men} 


AWAITING THE RESURRECTION AT KARNAK 


Lorn land of silence, land of awe! 
Lorn, lawless land of Moslem 
will,— 

The great Law-giver and the law 
Have gone away together. Still 
The sun shines on; still Nilus darkly 

red 
Steals on between his awful walls of 
dead. 


And sapphire skies still bend as when 
Proud Karnak’s countless columns 
propped 
The corners of the world; when men 
Kept watch where massive Cheops 
topped 
Their utmost reach of thought, and 
sagely drew 
Their star-lit lines along the trackless 
blue. 


But Phthah lies prostrate evermore; 
And Thoth and Neith all are gone; 


And huge Osiris hears no more, 
Thebes’ melodies; nor Mut at On 
Yet one lone obelisk still lords the 
spot 
Where Plato sat to learn. But On is 
not. | 


Nor yet has Time encompassed all; 
You trace your finger o’er a name 
That mocks at age within the wall 
Of fearful Karnak. Sword nor 
flame | 
Shall touch what men have jour- 
neyed far to touch | 
And felt eternity in daring such! | 


“Juda Melchi Shishak!’’ Read 
The Holy Book; read how that he 
With chariot and champing steed _ 
Invaded far and fair Judea. 
Yea, read the chronicle of red hands 
edd 
On “shields of gold which Solomon | 
had made.” 


The Woice of Toil 


397 


THE VOICE OF TOIL 


Come, lean an ear, an earnest ear, 

_ To Nature’s breast, some stilly eve, 

And you shall hear, shall surely hear 

_ The Carpenter, and shall believe; 

Shall surely hear, shall hear for aye, 

who will, 

The patient strokes of Christ resound- 
ing still. 


The thud of loom, the hum of wheel, 
That steady stroke of Carpenter! 
And was this all? Did God reveal 
No gleam of light to Him, to her? 
No gleam of hopeful light, sweet 
toiling friend, 
Save that which burneth dimly at 
the end. 


That beggar at the rich man’s gate! 
That rich man moaning down in 
hell! 
‘And all life’s pity, all life’s hate! 
Yea, toil lay on Him like a spell. 


Stop still and think of Christ, of 
Mary there, 

Her lifted face but one perpetual 
prayer. 


I can but hope at such sore time, 
When all her soul went out so fond, 
She touched the very stars sublime 
And took some sense of worlds 
beyond; 
And took some strength to ever toil 
and wait 
The glories bursting through God's 
star-built gate. 
And He s0 silent, patient, sad, 
As seeing all man’ssorrowsthrough! 


How could the Christ be wholly glad 
To know life’s pathos as Heknew,— 
To know, and know that all the 
beauteous years 
Man still will waste in battle, blood 
and tears? 


THE FOUNDATION STONES 


‘Be thou not angered. Go thy way 
From God’s high altar to thy foe; 
Nor think to kneel and truly pray 
Till thou art reconciled and know 
Thou hast forgiven him; as thou must 
fm be 
Forgiven of the sins that burthen 
thee. 


And if thine eye tempt thee to shame 
Turn thou aside; pluck it away! 


And with thy right hand deal the 

same, 
Nor tempt thy soul to sin this 

day. 

Yea, thou art very weak. Thou 
couldst not make 

One hair turn white or black, for 
thine own sake. 


And whosoever smite thy cheek, 
Turn thou that he may smite again. 


398 


The truly brave are truly meek, 
And bravely bear both shame and 
pain. 
They slay, if truly brave men ever 
slay, 
Their foes, with sweet forgiveness, 
day by day. 


And if a man would take thy coat, 
Give him thy cloak and count it 
meet. A 
Bread cast on waters can but float 
In sweet forgiveness to thy feet; 
So thou, by silent act like this, shalt 
preach 
Such sermons as not flame nor sword 
can teach. 


Lay not up treasures for.yourselves 
On earth, and stint and starve the 
soul 
By heaping granaries and shelves 
And high store-houses; for the 
whole 


THE FIRST LAW OF GOD 


Look back, beyond the Syrian sand, 
Beyond the awful flames that burst 

O’er Sinai! That first command 
Outside the gates, God’s very first, 


The First Law of God 


Of wealth is this: to grow and gre 
and grow 

In faith; to know and ever seek : 
know. 


Therefore give not too much 1 
thought | 
For thy tomorrows. Birds th: 
call | 
Sweet melodies sow not, reap not, 
And yet the Father feedeth all. 
Therefore toil trusting, loving; wate 
and pray, 
And pray in secret; pray not long 
but say: | 
| 
Give us our daily bread this day, 
Forgive our sins as we forgive, 
Lead us not in temptation’s way, - 
Deliver us that we may live; 
For thine the kingdom is, has eve 
been, ; 
And thine the power, the glory, an 
— Amen! | 


Was this: ‘‘Thou shalt in sweat an 


constant toil 


Eat bread till thou returnest to th 


soil,’’ 


LO! ON THE PLAINS OF BETHEL 


Lo! on the plains of Bethel lay 
An outworn lad, unhoused, alone, 
His couch the tawny mother clay, 
His pillowthatstorm-haunted stone; 


The hollow winds howled down the 


star-lit plain, | 


All white and wild with highbemy 


wintry rain. 
: 


: 


How Shall Man Surely Save His Soul? 


‘et here God’s ladder was let down, 
Yea, only here for aye and aye! 
lot in the high-walled, splendid town, 
‘Not to the throned king feasting 

| high, 

tut far beneath the storied Syrian 
® stars 

1od’s ladder fell from out the golden 
i bars. . 


| 


‘How shall man surely save his 

jm soul?” 

'’Twas sunset by the Jordan. Gates 

Mf light were closing, and the whole 
Vast heaven hung darkened as the 

| fates. 

‘How shall man surely save his 

' soul’’; he said 

\s fell the kingly day, discrowned and 

_ dead. 


‘he Christ said: ‘‘ Hear this parable. 
Two men set forth and journeyed 
"fast 

fo reach a place ere darkness fell 

_ And closed the gates ere they had 
passed; 

{wo worthy men, each free alike of 
| sin, 

dut one did seek most sure to enter 
fe. in. 


“And so when in their path did lay 

_ Accripple with a broken staff, 

The one did pass straight on his way, 

_ While one did stoop and give the 
half 


399 


And ever thus. Take heart! to some 
The hand of fortune pours her horn 
Of plenty, smiling where they come; 
And some to wit and some to 
wealth are born, 
And some are born to pomp and 
splendid ease; 
But lo! God’s shining ladder leans to 
none of these. 


HOW SHALL MAN SURELY SAVE HIS SOUL? 


His strength, and all his time did 
nobly share 
Till they at sunset saw their city fair. 


‘‘And he who weuld make sure ran 
fast 
To reach the golden sunset gate, 
Where captains and proud chariots 
passed, 
But) 10; 
late! 
The gate was closed, and all night 
long he cried; 
He cried and cried, but never watch 
replied. 


he came one moment 


‘‘Meanwhile, the man who cared to 
save 
Another as he would be saved 
Came slowly on, gave bread and 
gave 
Cool waters, and he stooped and 
laved 
The wounds. At last, bent double 
with his weight, 
He passed, unchid, the porter’s pri- 
vate gate. 


400 


“Hear then this lesson, hear and 
learn: 

He who would save his soul, I say, 

Must lose his soul; must dare to 
turn 


UNDER THE 


Those shining leaves that lisped and 
shook 
All darkness from them, sensate 
leaves 
In Nature’s never-ending book; 
Leaves full of truth as garnered 
sheaves 
That hold till seed-time fruitful seed, 
To grow as grows some small good 
deed. 


Under the Glive Trees 


And lift the fallen by the way; 
Must make his soul worth saving t 
some deed 
That grows, and grows, as grows th 
fruitful seed.”’ | 


OLIVE TREES 


How strangely and how vastly stil 
The harvest moon hung low an 


large, 
And drew across the dreamful hill 
Like some huge star-bouné 
freighted barge; 


Some strange, new, neighbor-worl 
it surely seemed, 

The while he gazed and dreamed, ye 
scarcely dreamed. 


FROM OUT THE GOLDEN DOORS OF DAWN 


From out the golden doors of dawn 
The wise men came, of wondrous 
thought, 
Who knew the stars. From far upon 
The shoreless East they kneeling 
brought 
Their costly gifts of inwrought gems 
and gold, 
While cloudlike incense from their 
presence rolled. 


Their sweets of flower fields, their 
sweet 
Distilments of most sacred leaves 
They laid, low-bending, at His feet, 
As reapers bend above their 
sheaves— 


As strong-armed reapers bendiny 
clamorous | 

To gather golden full sheaves ieneeling 
thus. 


And kneeling so, they spake of wher 
God walked His garden’s sacre¢ 
sod, | 
Nor yet had hid his face from men, 
Nor yet had man forgotten God. 
They spake. But Mary kept het 
thought apart 
And, silent, ‘‘pondered all things in 
her heart.”’ 


They spake in whispers long, they laid | 
Their shaggy heads together, drew 


The Sun Lap Molten in the Hea 


ome stained scrolls breathless forth, 
then made 

‘Such speech as only wise men 
i” knew,— 


AOI 


Their high, red camels on the huge 


hill set 


Outstanding, like some night-hewn 


silhouette. 


THE SUN LAY MOLTEN IN THE SEA 


‘he sun lay molten in the sea 
}€ sand, and all the sea was rolled 


In one broad, bright intensity 
Of gold and gold and gold and gold. 


“HE WALKED THE WORLD WITH BENDED HEAD 


Je walked the world with bended 
head. 

’There is no thing,” he moaning said, 

‘That must not some day join the 

' dead.” 


He sat where rolled a river deep; 
A woman sat her down to weep; 
A child lay in her lap asleep. 


The water touched the mother’s 
hand. 

His heart was touched. He passed 
from land, 

But left it laughing in the sand. 


‘That one kind word, that one good 
deed, 


Was as if you should plant a seed 
In sand along death’s sable brede. 


And looking from the farther shore 

He saw, where he had sat before, 

A light that grew, grew more and 
more. 


He saw a growing, glowing throng 
Of happy people white and strong 
With faith, and jubilant with song. 


It grew and grew, this little seed 
Of good sown in that day of need, 
Until it touched the stars indeed! 


And then the old man smiling said, 
With youthful heart and lifted head, 
‘‘No good deed ever joins the dead.” 


| ‘THE DAY SAT BY WITH BANNER FURLED 


The Day sat by with banner furled; 
His battered shield hung on the 
wall; 
One great star walked the upper 
world, 
26 


All purple-robed, in Stately Hall; 
Some unseen reapers gathered golden 
sheaves, 
The skies were as the tree of life in 
yellow leaves. 


402 


God’s poor of Hebron rested. Then 
Straightway unto their presence 
drew 
A captain with his band of men 
And smote His poor, and well-nigh 
slew, 
Saying, ‘‘Hence, ye poor! Behold, 
the king this night 
Comes forth with torch and dance and 
loud delight.” 


His poor, how much they cared to 
see! 
How begged they, prone, to see, to 
hear! 
But spake the captain angrily, 
And drove them forth with sword 
and spear, 
And shut the gate; and when the 
king passed through, 
These lonely poor—they knew not 
what to do. 


Lo, then a soft-voiced stranger said: 
““Come ye with mea little space. 
[ know where torches gold and red 


Gleam down a peaceful, ample 
place; 

Where song and perfume fill the rest- 
ful air, 


And men speak scarce at all. The 


king is there,” 


They passed; they sat a grass-set 
hill— 
What king hath carpets like to this? 
What king hath music like the trill 
Of crickets 'mid these silences— 


Che Dap Sat Bp with Banner Furled 


These perfumed silences, that | 
upon 
The soul like sunlight on a hill a 
dawn? | 


Behold what blessings in the air! 
What benedictions in the dew! | 
These olives lift their arms in prayer 
They turn their leaves, God read 
them through; | 
Yon lilies where the falling wate 
sings | 
Are fairer-robed than choristers ° 
kings. 


: 
Lift now your heads! yon golder 
bars 
That build the porch of heaven 
seas 
Of silver-sailing golden stars— 
Yea, these are yours, and all a 
these! | 
For yonder king hath never yet been, 
told | 
Of silver seas that sail these ships of 
gold. | 


| 


| 


They turned, they raised their heads. 
on high; | 
They saw, the first time saw and 
knew, 
The awful glories of the sky, 
The benedictions of the dew: | 
And from that day His poor were | 
richer far | 
Than all such kings as keep where | 
follies are. 


The Toil of God 


403 


THE? TOILSOF GOD 


Sehold the silvered mists that rise 
From all-night toiling in the corn. 
‘he mists have duties up the skies, 
The skies have duties with the 
morn; 
While all the world is full of earnest 
care 
[To make the fair world still more 
wondrous fair, 


More lordly fair; the stately morn 
Moves down the walk of golden 
wheat; 

Her guards of honor gild the corn 
In golden pathway for her feet; 
The purpled hills she crowns in 

crowns of gold, 
And God walks with us as He walked 
of old. 


THE BLESSED BEES 


{ think the bees, the blessed bees, 
Are better, wiser far than we. 
Thevery wild birdsin the trees 
Are wiser far, it seems to me; 
For love and light and sun and air 
Are theirs, and not a bit of care. 


What bird makes claim to all God’s 
trees? 
What bee makes claim to all God’s 
flowers? 
Behold their perfect harmonies, 
Their common board, the common 
hours! 
Say, why should man be less than 
these, 
The happy birds, the hoarding bees? 


The birds? What bird hath envied 
bird 
That he sings on as God hath 
willed? 
Yet man—what song of man is heard 
But he is stoned, or cursed, or 
killed? 
Thank God, sweet singers of the air, 
No sparrow falls without His care. 


O brown bee in your honey house? 
Could we like you but find it best 
To common build, on sweets carouse, 

To common toil, to common rest, 
To common share our sweets with 
men— 
We surely would be better then. 


MAN’S BOOKS 


‘Man’s books are but man’s alphabet; | The lessons of the violet, 


Beyond and on his lessons lie— 


The large, gold letters of the sky. 


404 


The Crulp Brabe 


THE TRULY BRAVE 


And what for the man who went forth 

for the right, 
Was hit in the battle and shorn of a 

limb? 

Why, honor for him who falls in the 
fight, 

Falls wounded of limb and crippled 
for life; 

Give boner give glory, give pensions 
for him, 

Give bread and give shelter for babes 
and for wife. 


But what for the hero who battles 
alone 

In battles of thought where God set 
him down; 

Who fought all alone and who fell 
overthrown 

In his reason at last from the hardness 
and hate? 

Why, jibe him and jeer him and point 
as you frown 

To that lowly, lone hero who dared 
challenge fate. 


God pity, God pardon, and God he! 
us all! 

“That young man of promise, 
wherever he be, ; 

“That young man of promise, 
wherever he fall,— 

For fall, he must-fall, ’tis a thousan 
to one,— 

Let us plant him a rose; let us plan 
a great tree | 

To hide his poor grave from the wou 
and the sun. 


I tell you ’twere better to cheris] 
that soul— 

That soldier that battles with though 
for a sword, 

That climbs the steep ramparts | 
wrong has control, 

And falls beaten hack by the rude 
trampling horde. 

Ay, better to cherish his words and 
his worth | 

Than all the Napoleons that people 
the earth. 


WHAT IF WE ALL LAY DEAD BELOW 


What if we all lay dead below; 
Lay as the grass lies, cold and dead 
In God’s own holy shroud of snow, 
With snow-white stones at foot and 
head, 
With all earth dead and shrouded 
white 
As clouds that cross the moon at 
night? 


What if that infidel some night 
Could then rise up and see how 
dead, 
How wholly dead and out of sight | 
All things with snows sown foot and 
head 
And lost winds wailing up and down | 
The emptied fields and emptied | 
town? 


Put Gp Thy HStword 


‘think that grand old infidel 

Would rub his hands with fiendish 
glee, 
ind say, “‘I knew it, knew it well! 

I knew that death was destiny; 
ate, I drank, I mocked at God, 
Then as the grass was, and the 

sod.” 


405 


Ah me, the grasses and the sod, 


They are my preachers. Hear 


them preach 


When they forget theshroud,and God | 


Lifts up these blades of grass to 
teach 


The resurrection! Who shall say 
| What infidel can speak as they? 


PUT UP THY SWORD 


4nd who the bravest of the brave; 
The bravest hero ever born? 

Twas one who dared a felon’s grave, 

Who dared to bear the scorn of 


scorn. 

Nay, more than this; when sword was 
drawn 

_ And vengeance waited for His 
word, 


He looked with pitying eyes upon 

_ The scene, and said, ‘‘Put up thy 
' sword.” 

Oh God! could man be found to- 
, day 

As brave to do, as brave to say? 


‘‘Put up thy sword into its sheath.” 
Put up thy sword, put up thy 
sword! 
By Cedron’s brook thus spake be- 
neath 
The olive-trees our valiant Lord, 
Spake calm and king-like. Sword 
and stave 
And torch, and stormy men of death 
Made clamor. Yet He spake not, 
save 
With loving word and patient 
breath, 
The peaceful olive-boughs beneath, 
‘‘Put up thy sword within its sheath.” 


WHY, KNOW YOU NOT SOUL SPEAKS TO SOUL 


Why, know you not soul speaks to 
i soulr 
_ I say the use of words shall pass— 


Words are but fragments of the 
glass, 
But silence is the perfect whole. 


THE VOICE OF THE DOVE 


Come, listen O Love to the voice of 


| the dove, 
Come, hearken and hear him say, 


1 


‘‘There are many To-morrows, my 
Love, my Love, 
There is only one Today.” 


406 The Woice of the Dove 


And all day long you can hear him | Now what is thy secret, serene gray 


say, dove, 

‘This day in purple is rolled Of singing so sweetly always? 

And the baby stars of the milky | ‘‘There are many ‘Tomorrows, my 
way, Love, my Love, 

They are cradled in cradles of gold.” There is only one Today.” 


n 
me 
é 
GH 
ro 
ce 
K 
oO 
Z 
oa 


407 


ENGLAND 


Thou, mother of brave men, of 
nations! Thou, 
The white-brow’d Queen of bold 
white-bearded Sea! 
‘Thou wert of old ever the same asnow, 
So strong, so weak, so tame, so fierce, 
so bound, so free, 
‘A contradiction and a mystery; 


Serene, yet passionate, in ways thine 


own. 

Thy brave ships wind and weave 
earth’s destiny. 

The zones of earth, aye, thou hast set 
and sown 


All seas in bed of blossom’d sail, as 
some great garden blown. 


Sh, PAUL'S 


I see above a crowded world a cross 
“Of gold. It grows like some great 
cedar tree 
‘Upon a peak in shroud of cloud and 
moss, 
Made bare and bronzed in far anti- 
quity. 
Stupendous pile! T he grim Yosemite 
Has rent apart his granite wall, and 
thrown 
Its rugged front before us. . 
Here I see 
_ The strides of giant men in cryptic 
stone, 
And turn, and slow descend where 
sleep the great alone. 


' 


The mighty captains have come 
| home to rest; 
_ The brave returned to sleep amid the 
brave. 


The sentinel that stood with steely 
breast 

Before the fiery hosts of France, and 
gave 

The battle-cry that roll’d, receding 
wave 

On wave, the foeman flying back and 
far, 

Is here. How still! Yet louder now 
the grave 

Than ever-crashing Belgian battle- 
car 


Or blue and battle-shaken seas of 
Trafalgar. 


The verger stalks in stiff import- 
ance o’er 
The hollow, deep and strange re- 
sponding stones; 
He stands with lifted staff unchid 
before 


409 


410 


The forms that once had crush’d or 


fashion’d thrones, 


Westminster Abbep 


A little time before... . 
disowns 


The han 


And coldly points you out the coffin’d | The idle sword, and now instead th 


bones: 
He stands composed where armies 
could not stand 


grand. 
And golden cross makes sign an 
takes austere command. 


WESTMINSTER ABBEY 


The Abbey broods beside the turbid 


Thames; 

Her mother heart is filled with mem- 
ories; 

Her every niche is stored with storied 
names; 

They move before me like a mist of 
seas. 

I am confused, and made abash’d by 
these 

Most kingly souls, grand, silent, and 
severe. 

Tam not equal, I should sore displease 

The living . . . dead. I dare not 


enter; drear 
And stain’d in storms of grander days 
all things appear. 


I go! but shall I not retur 

again 

When art has taught me gentle 
kindlier skill, 

And time has given force and sirenee 
of strain? 

Igo! Oye that dignify and fill | 

The chronicles of earth! I woul 
instil 

Into my soul somehow the atmo 
sphere 

Of sanctity that here usurps the 
will; 

But go; I seek the tomb of one—g 
peer | 


Of peers—whose dust a fool refused 
to cherish here. 


| 
4 


OH, FOR ENGLAND’S OLD TIME THUNDER! 


Oh, for England’s old sea thunder! 
Oh, for England’s bold sea men, 
When we banged her over, under 
And she banged us back again! 
Better old-time strife and stresses, 
Cloud topt towers, walls, distrust; 


AT LORD BYRON’S TOMB 


O Master, here I bow before a shrine; 
Before the lordliest dust that ever yet 


Better wars than lazinesses, 

Better loot than wine and lust! 
Give us seas? Why, we have oceans! 
Give us manhood, sea men, men! | 
Give us deeds, loves, hates, emotions! 
Else give back these seas again. | 


Moved animate in human form di- 
vine. | 


o! dustindeed to dust. The mold is set 

‘bove thee and the ancient walls are 
wet, 

nd drip all day in dank and silent 
gloom, 

.s if the cold gray stones could not 

forget 

‘hy great estate shrunk to this som- 
ber room, 

ut lean to weep perpetual tears 
above thy tomb. 


Before me lie the oak-crown’d 
Annesley hills, 

3efore me lifts the ancient Annesley 
Hall 

\bove the mossy oaks. ... A 
picture fills 

Nith forms of other days. A maiden 

tall 

\nd fair; a fiery restless boy, with all 

Che force of man! a steed that frets 


without; 

\ long thin sword that rusts upon the 
wall, .. 

[he generations pass. . Be- 
hold! about 


[he ivied hall the fair-hair’d children 
sport and shout. 


A bay wreath, wound by Ina of the 
West, ; 
Hangs damp and stain’d upon the 
dark gray wall, 
Above thy time-soil’d tomb and 
- tatter’d crest; 
A bay wreath gather’d by the seas 
that call 
To orient Cathay, that break and fall 
On shell-lined shores before Tahiti’s 
breeze. 


At Lord Bpron’s Comb 


4il 


A slab, acrest, a wreath, and these are 
all 

Neglected, tatter’d, torn; yet only 
these 

The world bestows for song that 
rivall’d singing seas. 


A bay-wreath wound by one more 

truly brave 

Than Shastan; fair as thy eternalfame, 

She sat and wove above the sunset 
wave, 

And wound and sang thy measures 
and thy name. 

'Twas wound by one, yet sent with 
one acclaim 

By many, fair and warm as flowing 
wine, 

And purely true, and tall as growing 
flame, 

That list and lean in moonlight’s 
mellow shine 

To tropic tales of lovein other tongues 
than thine. 


I bring this idle reflex of thy task, 

And my few loves, to thy forgotten 
tomb; 

T leave them here; and here all pardon 
ask 

Of thee, and patience ask of singers 
whom 

Thy majesty hath silenced. I resume 

My staff, and now my face is to the 
West; 

My feet are worn; the sun is gone, a 
gloom 

Has mantled Hucknall, and the min- 
strel’s zest 

For fame is broken here, and here he 
pleads for rest. 


A412 


Dead in the Long, Strong Grass 


DEAD IN THE LONG, STRONG GRASS 


Dead! stark dead in the long, strong 

grass! 

But he died with his sword in his 
hand. 

Who saysit? whosaw it? God saw it! 

And I knew him! St. George! he 
would draw it, 

Though they swooped down in mass 

Till they darkened the land! 

Then the seventeen wounds in his 


Dead! stark dead in the long, strong 
grass! 

Dead! and alone in the great dark 
land! 


O mother! not Empress now, mother! 


A nobler name, too, than all 
other, 

The laurel leaf fades from thy 
hand! 


O mother that waiteth, a mass! 


breast! Masses and chants must be said, 
Ah! these witness best! And cypress, instead. 
bias 
awe THE PASSING OF TENNYSON 


My kingly kinsmen, kings of thought, 
I hear your gathered symphonies, 


Yet on and on through all the stars 
Still searched and searched insatiate 


Such nights as when the world is not, 


And great stars chorus through my 


trees. 


We knew it, as God’s prophets knew, 
We knew it, as mute red men know, 
When Mars leapt searching heaven 


through 
With flaming torch, that he must 
go. 
Then Browning, he who knew the 
stars, 


Stood forth and faced insatiate Mars. 


Then up from Cambridge rose and 
turned 
Sweet Lowellfromhis Druid trees— 
Turned where the great star blazed 
and burned, 
As if his own soul might appease. 


Mars. 


td 


Then stanch Walt Whitman saw and 
knew; 


Forgetful of his ‘‘ Leaves of Grass,” 


He heard his ‘‘ Drum Taps” and God 
drew 


His great soul through the chinilll | 


pass, 

Madelight, made bright by fora 
sta'rs; 

Made scintillant-from flaming Marill 


Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard 
To cease; was heard to sing no more, 

As you have heard some sweetest bird 
The more because its song is o’er. 

Yet brighter up the street of stars 


Still blazed and burned and beckoned _ 


Mars. 


e 


Riel, the Webel 


“And then the king came; king of 


To wait and welcome 


thought, 
King David with his harp and 
crown. . 


How wisely well the gods had 


wrought 
That these had gone and sat them 
down 
’mid the 
stars 
All silent in the light of Mars. 


413 


All silent . . . So, he lies in state. 
Our redwoods drip and drip with 
TAM Ala 
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate 
We hear the great, sad, sobbing 
main. 
Butisilent allina. 4 
stars 
That year the whole world turned to 
Mars. 


He passed the 


RIEL, THE REBEL 


He died at dawn in the land of 
snows; 


A priest at the left, a priest’ at the 


right; 
The doomed man praying for his piti- 
less foes, 


_And each priest holding a low dim 


light, 


To pray for the soul of the dying. 
But Windsor Castle was far away; 
And Windsor Castle was never so 


gay 


With her gorgeous banners flying! 


, 


ter 


The hero was hung in the windy 

dawn— 

’Twas splendidly done, the telegraph 
said; 

A creak of the neck, then the shoul- 
ders drawn; 

A heave of the breast—and the man 
hung dead, 

And, oh! never such valiant dying! 

While Windsor Castle was far away 

With its fops and fools on that windy 
day, 

And its thousand banners flying! 


MOTHER EGYPT 


Dark-browed, she broods with weary 
lids 
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids, 


With low and never-lifted head. 
_If she be dead, respect the dead; 
If she be weeping, let her weep; 
If she be sleeping, let her sleep; 


For lo, this woman named the stars! 


She suckled at her tawny dugs 


Your Moses while you reeked in wars 
And prowled your woods, nude, 
painted thugs. 


Then back, brave England; back in 
peace 

To Christian isles of fat increase! 

Go back! Else bid your high priests 
mold 


414 


Their meek bronze Christs to cannon 
bold; 

Take down their cross from proud St. 
Paul’s 

And coin it into cannon-balls! 

You tent not far from Nazareth; 

Your camps trench where his child- 
feet strayed. 

If Christ had seen this work of death! 

If Christ had seen these ships invade! 


I think the patient Christ had said, 


“Go back, bravemen! Take up your 
dead; 

Draw down your great ships to the 
seas; 


Repass the Gates of Hercules. 

Go back to wife with babe at breast, 

And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.” 

Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is? 

Ah, England, hear me yet again; 

There’s something grimly wrong in 
this— 

So like some gray, sad woman slain. 


What would you have your mother 
do? 


| Go back! 


Africa 


Hath she not done enough for you? — 
And when you learn to 
read, 
Come read this obelisk.. Her deed 
Like yonder awful forehead is : 
Disdainful silence. Like to this : 
What lessons have you writ in stone : 
To passing nations that shall stand? 
Why, years as hers will leave you 

lone 
And level as yon yellow sand. 


Saint George? Your lions? Whence. 
are they? 
From awful, silent Africa. | 
This Egypt is the lion’s lair; 
Beware, brave Albion, beware! | 
I feel the very Nile should rise 
To drive you from this sacrifice. 
And if the seven plagues should 
come? 
The red seas swallow sword and ; 
steed? | 
Lo! Christian lands stand mute and 
dumb , | 
| 
| 


To see thy more than Moslem deed. 


AFRICA 


Oh! she is very old. I lay, 
Made dumb with awe and wonder- 
ment, 
Beneath a palm before my tent, 
With idle and discouraged hands, 
Not many days ago, on sands 
Of awful, silent Africa. 
Long gazing on her ghostly shades, 
That lift their bare arms in the air, 
I lay. I mused where story fades 


From her dark brow and found her | | 
fair. | 


A slave, and old, within her veins | 
There runs that warm, forbid 
blood 
That no man dares to dignify | 
In elevated song. The chains | 
That held her race but yesterday : 
Hold still the hands of men. Forbid 


Boston to the Boers 


[fs Ethiop. The turbid flood 

Of prejudice lies stagnant still, 

And all the world is tainted. Will 

And wit lie broken as a lance 

Against the brazen mailéd face 

Of old opinion. None advance, 

Steel-clad and glad, to the attack, 

With trumpet and with song. Look 

| back! 

Beneath yon pyramids lie hid 

The histories of her great race... . 

Old Nilus rolls right sullen by, 

With all his secrets. Who shall say: 

My father rear’d a pyramid; 

My brother clipp’d the dragon’s 
wings; 

My mother was Semiramis? 

Yea, harps strike idly out of place; 

Men sing of savage Saxon kings 

New-born and known but yesterday, 

And Norman blood presumes to 
Saye wah: 


_ Nay, ye who boast ancestral name 
And vaunt deeds dignified by time 
Must not despise her. Who hath 
/ worn 

Since time began a face that is 

So all-enduring, old like this— 

A face like Africa’s? Behold! 

The Sphinx is Africa. The bond 

Of silence is upon her. Old 

And white with tombs, and rent and 
shorn; 


BOSTON TO 


“For the right that needs assistance, 
For the wrong that needs resistance, 
| For the glory in the distance, 

- For the good that we can do.”’ 


415 


With raiment wet with tears, and 
torn, 

And trampled on, yet all untamed; 

All naked now, yet not ashamed,— 

The mistress of the young world’s 
prime, 

Whose obelisks still laugh at time, 

And lift to heaven her fair name, 

Sleeps satisfied upon her fame. 


Beyond the Sphinx, and still be- 

yond, 

Beyond the tawny desert-tomb 

Of Time; beyond tradition, loom 

And lift, ghost-like, from out the 
gloom, 

Her thousand cities, battle-torn 

And gray with story and with 
Time. 

Her humblest ruins are sublime; 

Her thrones with mosses overborne 

Make velvets for the feet of Time. 


She points a hand and cries: ‘Go 

read 

The letter’d obelisks that lord 

Old Rome, and know my name and 
deed. 

My archives these, and plunder’d 
when 

I had grown weary of all men.”’ 

We turn to these; we cry: ‘“ Abhorr’d 

Old Sphinx, behold, we cannot read!” 


THE BOERS 


‘‘ For Freedom's battles once begun, 
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, are ever won,”— 

BYRON. 


416 


The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God, 
Be with ye, Boers. Brave men of 
peace, 
Ye hewed the path, ye brake the sod, 
Ye fed white flocks of fat increase, 
Where Saxon foot had never trod; 
Where Saxon foot unto this day 
Had measured not, had never known, 
Had ye not bravely led the way 
And made such happy homes your 
own. 


I think God’s house must be such 
home. 

The priestess Mother, choristers 

Who spin and weave, nor care to 
roam 

Beyond this white God’s house of 
hers, 

But spinning sing and spin again. 

I think such silent shepherd men 

Most like that few the prophet 
sings— 

Most like that few stout Abram drew 

Triumphant o’er the slaughtered 
kings. 


Boston to the Boers 


Defend God’s house! Let fall th 
crook, 

Draw forth the plowshare from th. 
sod, 


And trust, as in the Holy Book, | 
The Gwar of GideonandofGod; | 
God and the right! Enough to figh| 
A million regiments of wrong. 
Defend! Nor count what comes of it 
God’s battle bidesnot with the strong| 
And pride must fall. Lo! it is writ!| 


Great England’s Gold! how stanel 
she fares, | 

Fame’s wine-cup dressing her prout| 
lips— 

Her checker-board of battle square 

Rimmed round by steel-built battle 


ships! 
And yet meanwhiles ten thous 
miles 
She seeks ye out. Well, welcorl 
her! 
Give her such welcome with such wil 
As Boston gave in battle’s whir 


That red, dread day at Bunker Hill 


Wengen 2" 


iS 
se 
So) 
pana 
as 
eal 
ae 
HH 
= 
O 
4 
7 
U2 
eo) 
Zz 
©) 
a ore 
g 
a 


417 


THE 


Yes, lam dreamer. Yet while you 

dream, 

Then I am awake. 
back through 

The gates of the past I peer’d, and I 
‘knew 

The land I had lived in. 
broad stream, 

Saw rainbows that compass’d a world 
in their reach; 

I saw my belovéd go down on the 
beach; 


When a child, 


I saw a 


POET 


Saw her lean to this earth, saw her 
looking for me 

As shipmen looked for loved ship at 
SYosha Mag ue 

While you seek gold in the earth, 
why, I 

See gold in the steeps of the starry 
sky; 

And which do you think has the 
fairer view 

Of God in heaven—the dreamer or 
you? 


AND OH, THE VOICES I HAVE HEARD 


And oh, the voices I have heard! 
Such visions where the morning 
grows— 
A brother’s soul in some sweet bird, 
A sister’s spirit in a rose. 


And oh, the beauty I have found! 
Such beauty, beauty everywhere; 


THE WORLD IS A 


Aye, the world is a better old 
_ world today! 
And a great good mother this earth 
of ours; 
Her white tomorrows are a white 
stairway 
To lead us up to the far star flowers— 


The beauty creeping on the ground, 
The beauty singing through the air. 


The lovein all, the good, the worth, 
The God in all, or dusk or dawn; 
Good will to man and peace on 

earth; 
The morning stars sing on and on. 


BETTER WORLD 


The spiral tomorrows that one by 
one 

Weclimb and we climb in the face of 
the sun. 


Aye, the world is a braver old world 
today! 


419 


420 


For many a hero dares bear with 
wrong— 

Willlaugh at wrong and willturn away; 

Will whistle it down the wind with a 
song— 


The Fortunate Isles 


| 
Dares slay the wrong with h 
splendid scorn! 
The bravest old hero that ever We 
born! 


THE FORTUNATE ISLES 


You sail and you seek for the Fortu- 
nate Isles, 
The old Greek Isles of the yellow 
bird’s song? 
Then steer straight on through the 
watery miles, 
Straight on, straight on, and you 
can’t go wrong. 
Nay not to the left, nay not to the 
right, 
But on, straight on, and the Isles are 
in sight, 
The old Greek Isles where yellow 
birds sing 
And life lies girt with a golden ring. 


These Fortunate Isles they are not so 
far, 
They lie within reach of the lowliest 
door; 
You can see them gleam by the 
twilight star; 
You can hear them sing by the 
moon’s white shore— 


TO SAVE 


It seems to me a grandest thing 
To save the soul from perishing 
By planting it where heaven’s rain 
May reach and make it grow again. 


Nay, never look back! 
grave §tones | 

They werelanding steps; they wer 
steps unto thrones 

Of glory for souls that have gon 
before, 

And have set white feet on the fortu 

nate shore. 


Those levele 


And what are the names of thi 


Fortunate Isles? 
Why, Duty and Love and a larg: 
Content. | 
Lo! these are the Isles of the water 
miles, , 
That God let down from the firma. 
ment. 


Aye! Daly, and Love, and a true 
man’s trust; 

Your forehead to God though you? 
feet in the dust. 

Aye! Duty to man, and to God mean- 
whiles, 

And these, O friend, are the Fortu- 
nate Isles. | 


| 


A SOUL 


It seems to me the man who leaves: 
The soul to perish is as one : 
Who gathers up the empty sheaves 
When all the golden grain is done. 


The Light of Christ’s Face 


421 


I THE LIGHT OF CHRIST’S FACE 


| Behold how glorious! Behold 
The light of Christ’s face; and such 
| light! 

The Moslem, Buddhist, as of old, 
ropes hopeless on in hopeless night. 
But lo, where Christ comes, crowned 
with flame, 

Ten thousand triumphs in Christ’s 
| name. 


"Be clean, be clean!’’ Gautama cried, 
“Come, know the strength of being 
: clean; 

Come, lie no more, ye who have lied, 
- Come, lust no more, no more be 
/ mean; 

Be false no more, be foul no more, 
\2 I shall judge ye to the core.” 


‘They came, the silken Mandarin, 
The soldier with his blood-wet 
name, 
The poet with his lust of fame, 
‘The priest in sandals soaked with 
| sin, 
The lawyer with his quibs and lies, 
The merchant with queer mer- 
chandise. 


And each so proud, proud and polite! 
So proud and clean! clean out of sight! 
Their very finger nails so clean 
They shone like sea shells, pink and 
green— 


Elijah’s chariot of fire 
Chained lightnings harnessed to his 
car! 
Jove’s thunders bridled by a wire— 
Call unto nations “‘here we are!”’ 


Lo! all the world one sea of 
light, 

Save where the Paynim walks in 
night. 


GOOD BUDDHA SAID ‘‘BE CLEAN, BE CLEAN” 


| A free translation from the Chinese. 


A sort of ultra-submarine— 
Whatever ultra-sub may mean. 


And, too, there came a barefoot boy, 
Who left his long-horned purple 
cow 
Amid red poppies at the plow— 
Came whistling low with quiet joy, 
To stand aloof with modest mien 
And see the strength of being clean. 


Gautama waved his wand, and lo, 
On each such load of dirt was laid 
He bowed and sank down, sore 

afraid. 

Some sank so low, some trembled so, 
Some sank in such sad, piteous 

plight 
Their red-topt heads sank out of 
sight. 


The Mandarin with silk-tipt tail 
Showed scarce a shining finger nail. 


422 


The white-robed lawyer, lies and 
brief, 
Lay hid in dirt past all belief, 
The red-robed merchant could not 
rise 
One jot from out his load of lies. 


And all lay helpless, all save one, 
That simple-hearted farmer’s son, 
With soiled bare feet and sweat- 
moiled face, 
Who stood soft whistling in his 
place— 


True Greatness 


Still wondering, yet safe, serene, 
In all the strength of being clean. 


But sudden tears came to his eyes, 
A flood of tender, piteous tears, 
For those poor slaves, so bound 

lies, 
And writhing in their filth anc 
fears. 
He leaned in pity o’er, when lo, 
His clean tears washed all clean as 
snow! 


TRUE GREATNESS 


How sad that all great things are 
sad — 

That greatness knows not to be glad. 
The boundless, spouseless, fearful sea 
Pursues the moon incessantly; 

And Cesar childless lives and dies. 
The thunder-torn Sequoia tree 

In solemn isloation cries 
Sad chorus with the homeless wind 
Above the clouds, above his kind, 
Above the bastioned peak, above 
All sign or sound or sense of love. 
How mateless, desolate and drear 
His lorn, long seven thousand year! 
My comrades, lovers, dare to be 


More truly great than Cesar; he 
Who hewed three hundred towms 
apart, 
Yet never truly touched one heart. 
The tearful, lorn, complaining sea 
The very moon looks down upon, 
Then changes,—as a saber drawn; 
The great Sequoia lords as lone : 
As God upon that fabled throne. | 
No,no! True greatness, glory, fame, 
Is his who claims not place nor 
name, | 
But loves, and lives content, com- 
plete, 
With baby flowers at his feet. : 


ON THE FIRING LINE : 


For glory? For good? 
or for fame? 
Why, ho, for the front where the 
battle is on! 
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, 
the lame; 


For fortune, 


Go forward as ever the valiant 
have gone. | 
Whether city or field, whether | 
mountain or mine, 
Go forward, right on for the firing 
line! 


Mothers 


‘Whether newsboy or plowboy or cow- 


of Hen A23 


Aye, the one place to fight and the one 


| boy or clerk, place to fall— 

_ Fight forward; be ready, be steady, As fall we must all, in God’s good 
be first; time— 

! Be fairest, be bravest; be best at your | It is where the manliest man is the 
| work; wall, 

| Exult and be glad; dare to hunger, Where boys are as men in their 
to thirst, pride and prime, 

As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk | Where glory gleams brightest, where 
and whipr~ — brightest eyes shine— 

“There is room but for men on the | Far out on the roaring red firing 
firing line. line. 


: MOTHERS OF MEN 


When grand Greeks lived like to 
gods, and when 
Brave mothers of men, 
breasted and broad, 
Did exult in fulfilling the purpose of 
God.”’ 


| “Oh, give me good mothers! Yea, 
great, glad mothers, 

Proud mothers of dozens, indeed 
twice ten; 
Fair mothers of daughters and 
| mothers of men, 
With old-time clusters of sisters and 
brothers, 


strong 


AFTER THE BATTLE 


Sing banners and cannon and roll | Oh, godlike man to die for the 


: of drum! right! 
- Theshouting of men and the marshal- | Oh, manlike God to revenge the 
ing! wrong! 


Lo! cannon to cannon and earth 
struck dumb! 
Oh, battle, in song, is a glorious 
thing! 


Yea, riding to battle, on battie 
day— 
Why, a soldier is something more 
than a king! 
But after the battle! 
away! 
Ah, the riding away is another thing! 


Oh, glorious day, riding down to The riding 


: the fight! 
Oh, glorious battle in story and song! 


424 


®ur Heroes of Today 


OUR HEROES OF TODAY 


I 


With high face held to her ulti- 

mate star, 

With swift feet set to her mountains 
of gold, 

This new-built world, where the 
wonders are, 

She has built new ways from the ways 
of old. 


II 


Her builders of worlds are workers 
with hands; 
Her true world-builders are builders 
of these, 
The engines, the plows; writing poems 
in sands 
Of gold in our golden Hesperides. 


Il 


I reckon these builders as gods 
among men: 
I count them creators, creators who 
knew 
The thrill of dominion, of conquest, 
as when 
God set His stars spinning their 
spaces of blue. 


IV 


A song for the groove, and a song 

for the wheel, 

And a roaring song for the rumbling 
car; 

But away with the pomp of the sol- 
dier’s steel, 

And away forever with the trade of 
war. 


V : 


The hero of time is the hero of} 
thought; 
The hero who lives is the hero ol 
‘peace; | 
And braver his battles than ever were 
fought, 
From Shiloh back to the battles of 
Greece. 


VI 


The hero of heroes is the engineer; 
The hero of height and of gnome- 
built deep, 
Whose only fear is the brave man’s 
fear 
That some one waiting at home might 
weep. 


VII 


The hero we love in this land today | 
Is the hero who lightens some fellows 
man’s load— 


Who makes of the mountain some. 


pleasant highway; 


Who makes of the desert some blos- 


som-sown road. 


VIII 


Then hurrah! for the land of the. 


golden downs, 
For the golden land of the silver hora 
Her heroes have built her a thousand) 
towns, 


But never destroyed her one blade of 


corn. 


| What shall be said of this soldier 

_now dead? 

This builder, this brother, now resting 

| forever? 

What shall be said of this soldier who 

bled 

| ia thirty-three years of silent 

endeavor? 

Why, name him thy hero! Yea, 

| write his name down 

As something far nobler, as braver 
by far 

Than purple-robed Caesar of battle- 

. torn town 

When bringing home 

trophies of war. 


glittering 


In the days when my mother, the 

| Earth, was young, 

And you all were not, nor the likeness 
of you, 

She walk’d in her maidenly prime 

f among 

| The moonlit stars in the boundless 
blue 


Then the great sun lifted his shin- 
ing shield, 
And he flash’d his sword as the sol- 
diers do, 


Q Pead Carpenter 
A DEAD CARPENTER 


425 


The Carpenter, master, is dead and 
lo! there is 

Silence of song upon nature’s draped 
lute! 


Brother! 

of mine! 

My brother by toil ’mid the toiling 
and lowly, 

My brother by sign of this hard hand, 
by sign 

Of toil, and hard toil, that the Christ 
has made holy: 


Oh, manly dead brother 


Yea, brother of all the brave mil- 
lions that toil; 
Brave brother in patience and silent 


endeavor, 
Oh, dark somber pines of my star- | Rest on, as the harvester rich from 
lit Sierras, his soil, 
Be silent of song, for the master is | Rest you, and rest you for ever and 
mute! ever. 
. QUESTION? 


And he moved like a king full over 
the field, 

And he looked, and he loved her 
brave and true. 


And looking afar from the ultimate 


rim, 

As he lay at rest in a reach of 
light, 

He beheld her walking alone at 
night, 


When the buttercup stars in their 
beauty swim. 


426 
So he rose up flush’d in his love, 
and he ran, 
And he reach’d his arms, and around 
her waist 
He wound them strong like a love- 
struck man, 


And he kissed and embraced her’ 
brave and chaste. 


So he nursed his love like a babe at 
its birth, 


Don't Stop at the Station Despair 


And he warm’d in his love as the lon; 
years ran, 

Then embraced her again, and swee 
mother Earth 

Was a mother indeed, and her chil 
was man. 


The sun is the sire, the mother is 

earth! 

What more do you know? what more 
do I need? 


DON’T STOP AT THE STATION DESPAIR 


We must trust the Conductor, most 


surely ; 
Why, millions of millions before 
Have made this same journey 
securely 


And come to that ultimate shore. 
And we, we will reach it in season; 

And ah, what a welcome is there! 
Reflect then, how out of all reason 

To stop at the Station Despair. 


Aye, midnights and many a potion 
Of bitter black water have we 

As we journey from ocean to ocean— 
From sea unto ultimate sea— 


To that deep sea of seas, and all 
silence 

Of passion, concern and of care—_ 

That vast sea of Eden-set Islands— | 

Don't stop at the Station Despair! 


Go forward, whatever may follow, 
Go forward, friend-led, or alone; 
Ah me, to leap off in some hollow 
Or fen, in the night and unknown— 
Leap off like a thief; try to hide : 
you 
From angels, all waiting you there! | 
Go forward; whatever betide you, 


Don’t stop at the Station Despair! 


FOR THOSE WHO FAIL 


“All honor to him who shall win 

the prize,’’ 

The world has cried for a thousand 
years; 

But to him who tries, and who fails 
and dies, 

I give great honor and glory and 
tears: 


Give glory and honor and pitiful 


tears 


To all who fail in their deeds sub-_ 


lime; 


Their ghosts are many in the van of | 


years, 


They were born with Time, in ad- | 


vance of their Time. 


The River of Rest 


Oh, great is the hero who wins a 
name, 

But greater many and many a time 

Some pale-faced fellow who dies in 

| shame, 

And lets God finish the thought sub- 

) lime. 


427 


And great is the man with a sword 
undrawn, 
And good is the man who refrains 
from wine; 
But the man who fails and yet still 
fights on, 
Lo, heis the twin-born brother of mine. 


THE RIVER OF REST 


A beautiful stream is the River of 

Rest; 

The still, wide waters sweep clear and 

| cold, 

A tall mast crosses a star in the west, 

A white sail gleams in the west 
world’s gold: 

It leans to the shore of the River of 
“Rest |): 

The lily-lined shore of the River of 
Rest. 


The boatman rises, he reaches a 
hand, 

‘He knows you well, he will steer you 
) true, 

And far, so far, from all ills upon 
land, 


From hates, from fates that pursue 
and pursue; 

Far over the lily-lined River of 
Rest— 

Dear mystical, magical River of Rest, 


A storied, sweet stream is this 

River of Rest; 

The souls of all time keep its ulti- 
mate shore; 

And journey you east or journey you 
west, 

Unwilling, or willing, sure footed or 
sore, 

You surely will come to this River of 
Rest=— 

This beautiful, beautiful River of 
Rest. 


| DEATH IS DELIGHTFUL 


Death is delightful. Death is dawn, 
The waking from a weary night 

_ Of fevers unto truth and light. 

- Fame is not much, love is not much, 
Yet what elseis there worth the touch 
Of lifted hands with dagger drawn? 


So surely life is little worth: 

Therefore I say, look up; there- 
fore 

I say, one little star has more 

Bright gold than all the earth of 
earth. 


428 


The Song of the Silence 


THE SONG OF THE SILENCE 


O, heavens, the eloquent song of the 
silence! 
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on 
the sod, 
And asleep in the sun lay the green- 
girdled islands, 
As rock’d to their rest in the cradle 
of God. 


God’s poet is silence. His song is wept at their will . . . 
unspoken. The poems of God are too grand to 
And yet so profound, so loud, and be utter’d: 
so far, The dreadful deep seas they are 
loudest when still. 
TOMORROW 
O thou Tomorrow! Mystery! O day of promises to pay! 


O day that ever runs before! 

What hath thine hidden hand in store 
For mine, Tomorrow, and for me? 

O thou Tomorrow! what hast thou 
In store to make me bear the Now? 


O day in which we shall forget 
The tangled troubles of today! 
O day that laughs at duns, at debt! 


It fills you, it thrills you with 


measures unbroken, 
And as soft, and as fair, and as far 
as a star. 


The shallow seas moan. From the 
first they have mutter’d 
And mourn’d, as a child, and have 


O shelter from all present storm! 
O day in which we shall reform! 


O day of all days to reform! 
Convenient day of promises! 
Hold back the shadow of the storm. 
Let not thy mystery be less, 
O bless’d Tomorrow! chiefest friend, 
But lead us blindfold to the end. 


FINALE 


Ah me! I mind me long agone, 
Once on a savage snow-bound 
height 
We pigmies pierced a king. Upon 
His bare and upreared breast till 
night 
We rained red arrows and we 
rained 


Hot lead. Then up the steep and 
slow 

He passed; yet ever still disdained _ 

To strike, or even look below. 

We found him, high above the clouds 
next morn 

And dead, in all his silent, splendid 
scorn, 


Finale 429 


~ So leave me, as the edge of night For Jesus’ sake let my poor head 
Comes on, a little time to pass, Lie pillowed with these stones. My 
Or pray. For steep the stony height store 

And torn by storm, and bare of grass | Of wealth is these. I earned them. 
Or blossom. And when I lie dead Let me keep 


Oh, do not drag me down once | Still on alone, on mine own star-lit 
more. steep. 


op 
al 
Z 
5 
5 
= 
a 
a 
<q 
= 
— 
f) . 
s 
op 
eI 
= 


431 


THE MISSOURI 


Vhere ranged thy  black- mated, 

woolly bulls 

By millions, fat and unafraid; 

Where gold, unclaimed in cradlefuls, 

Slept ’mid the grass roots, gorge, 
and glade; 

Where peaks companioned with the 
stars, 

And propped the blue with shining 

white, 

With massive silver beams and bars, 

_ With copper bastions, height on 
height— 

There wast thou born, a lord of 
strength! 

0 yellow lion, leap and length 

Of arm from out an Arctic chine 

To far, fair Mexic seas are thine! 


; 

What colors? Copper, silver, gold 

_ With sudden sweep and fury blent, 
Enwound, unwound, inrolled, un- 
: rolled, — 

Mad molder of the continent! 

| * whirlpools and what choking 


cries 


—— 


From out the concave swirl and 
sweep 
As when some god cries out and dies 
Ten fathoms down thy tawny deep! 
Yet on, right on, no time for death, 
No time to gasp a second breath! 
You plow a pathway through the 
main 
To Morro’s castle, Cuba’s plain. 


Hoar sire of hot, sweet Cuban seas, 
Gray father of the continent, 
Fierce fashioner of destinies, 
Of states thou hast upreared or 


rent, 
Thou: know’st no limit; seas turn | 

back, 
Bent, broken from the shaggy 

shore; 


But thou, in thy resistless track, 

Art lord and master evermore. | 
Missouri, surge and sing and Seen 
Missouri, master of the deep, 

From snow-reared Rockies to the 
sea 
Sweep on, sweep on eternally! 


DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI AT NIGHT 


t Sowing the waves with a fiery 


rain, 
| Leaving behind us a lane of light, 
| Weaving a web in the woof of night, 


Cleaving a continent’s wealth in 


twain. 
28 


w 


Lighting the world with a way of 
flame, 
Writing, even as the lightnings write 
High over the awful arched forehead 
of night, 
Jehovah’s dread, unutterable name. 


433 


434 


By the Lower Mississippi 


BY THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI 


The king of rivers has & dolorous 

shore, 

A dreamful dominion of cypress- 
trees, 

A gray bird rising forever more, 

And drifting away toward the Mexi- 
can seas— 

A lone bird seeking for some lost 
mate, 

So dolorous, lorn and desolate. 


The shores are gray as the sands 
are gray; 
And gray are the trees in their cloaks 
of moss;— 
That gray bird rising and drifting 
away, 


HER PICTURE 


T see her now—the fairest thing 
That ever mocked man’s picturing, 
I picture her as one who drew 
Aside life’s curtain and 

through 
The mists of all life’s mystery 
As from a wood to open sea. 


looked 


I picture her as one who knew 
How rare is truth to be untrue— 
As one who knew the awful sign 
Of death, of life, of the divine 
Sweet pity of all loves, all hates, 
Beneath the iron-footed fates. 


I picture her as seeking peace, 
And olive leaves and vine-set land; 
While strife stood by on either hand, 


Slow dragging its weary long leg 
across— | 

So weary, just over the gray woud 
brink; 

It wearies one, body and soul tothin 


These vast gray levels of cypres 

wood, ; 

The gray soldiers’ graves; and sc 
God’s will— 

These cypress-trees’ roots are stil 
running blood; 

The smoke of battle in their mosse 
still— 

That gray bird wearily drifting away 

Was startled some long-since batth 
day. 


| 


And wrung her tears like rosaries, ) 
I picture her in passing rhyme _— | 
As of, yet not a part of, these— : 
A woman born above her time. : 

| 


The soft, wide eyes of wonderment 
That trusting looked you througt 
and through; 
The sweet arched mouth, a bow new 
bent, 
That sent love’s arrows | swift and 
true. 
That sweet, arched mouth! Te 
Orient 
Hath not such pearls in all her storm 
Nor all her storied, spice-set shores _ 
Have fragrance such as it hath spent. 


Christmas bp the Great River 435 
CHRISTMAS BY THE GREAT RIVER 


Oh, lion of the ample earth, What tales of twenty States the day 
that sword can cleave thy sinews | You left your lair and leapt forth: 


through? 
he south forever cradles you; The day you tore the mountain’s 
nd yet the great North gives you breast 

birth. And in the icy North uprose, 

And shook your sides of rains and 

Go find an arm so strong, so sure, snows, 
10 forge a sword so keen, so true, And rushed against the South to rest: 
‘hat it can thrust thy bosom 

through; Oh, tawny river, what of they, 
‘hen may this union not endure! The far North folk? The maiden 
: sweet— 

In orange lands I lean today The ardent lover at her feet— 


\gainst thy warm tremendous mouth, What story of thy States today! 
Jh, tawny lion of the South, 


fo hear what story you shall say. 
The river kissed my garment’s hem 


- What story of the stormy North, And whispered as it swept away: 


}€ frost-bound homes, of babes at | © God’s story in all States today 
play, Is of a babe of Bethlehem.” 


HE LOVES AND RIDES AWAY 


__A fig for her story of shame and of And that was the reason, from first 


: pride! to last; 
She strayed in the night and her feet | Down under the dark, still cypresses 
there. 


| 
{ 


fell astray ; 
The great Mississippi was glad that The Father of Waters he held her 


. day, fast. 
‘And that is the reason the poor girl | He kissed her face, he fondled her 
| hair, | 


died; 
The great Mississippi was glad, I say, | No more, no morean unloved outcast, 
And splendid with strength in his | He clasped her close to his great, 
| fierce, full pride— strong breast, 

And that is the reason the poor girl | Brave lover that loved her last and 


died. best: 


436 


Around and around in her watery 

world, 

Down under the boughs where the 
bank was steep, 

And cypress treees kneeled all gnarly 
and curled, 

Where woods were dark as the waters 
were deep, 

Where strong, swift waters were swept 
and swirled, 

Where the whirlpool sobbed and 
sucked in its breath, 

As some great monster that is choking 
to death: 


Where sweeping and 

around and around 

That whirlpool eddied so dark and so 
deep 

That even a populous world might 
have drowned, 

So surging, so vast and so swift its 
sweep— 

She rode on the wave. 
trees that weep, 

The solemn gray cypresses leaning 
o’er; 

The roots that ran blood as they 
leaned from the shore! 


swirling 


She surely was drowned! But she 
should have lain still; 

She should have lain dead as the 
dead under ground; 

She should have kept still as the dead 
on the hill! 

But ever and ever she eddied around, 

And so nearer and nearer she die 
me there 

Till her eyes met mine in their cold 
dead stare. 


And the. 


abe Loves and Rides Atay 


Then she looked, and she looked g 

to look me through; 

And she came so close to my feet 0 
the shore; 

And her large eyes, larger than eye 
before, 

They never grew weary as dead men’ 
do. 

And her hair! as long as the moss tha 
swept 

From the cypress trees as they leanei 
and wept. 


Then the moon rose up, and sb 

came to see, 

Her long white fingers slow pouty 
there; 

Why, shoulder to shoulder the moor 
with me 

On the bank that night, with het 
shoulders bare, 

Slow pointing and pointing that 
white face out, 

As it swirled and it swirled, and it 
swirled about. ) 


There ever and ever, around and! 


around, 

Those great sad eyes that refused to 
sleep! 

Reproachful sad eyes that had ceased 
to weep! | 

And the great whirlpool with its 
gurgling sound! . 


The reproachful dead that was not 
yet dead! | 

Thelong strong hair from that shapely! 
head! 


Her hair was so long! so marveloaay 
long, 


om 


s she rode and she rode on that 

whirlpool’s breast; 

nd she rode so swift, and she rode so 

strong, 

lever to rest as the dead should rest. 

th, tell me true, could her hair in the 
wave 

lave grown as grow dead men’s in 

the grave? 


For, hist! I have heard that a 
virgin’s hair 

Vill grow in the grave of a virgin 
true, 

Vill grow and grow in the coffin 

there, 

[ill head and foot it is filled with hair 

Ml] silken and soft—but what say 

you? 

Yea, tell me truly can this be true? 


_ For oh, her hair was so strangely 
long, 

That it bound her about like a veil of 
night, 

With only her pitiful face in sight! 
As she rode so swift, and she rode so 
strong, 


I dream’d, O Queen, of you, last 

night; 

Ican but dream of thee today. 

But dream? Oh! I could kneel and 
pray 

To one, who, like a tender light, 

Leads ever on my lonesome way, 


The Queen of Mp Dreams 


‘And will not pass—yet will not stay. 


437 


That it wrapped her about, as a 
shroud had done, 
A shroud, a coffin, and a veil in one. 


And oh, that ride on the whirling 

tide! 

That whirling and whirling it is in 
my head, 

For the eyes of my dead they are not 
yet dead, 

Though surely the lady had long since 
died: 

Then the mourning wood by the 
watery grave; 

The moon’s white face to the face in 
the wave. 

That moon I shall hate! For she 

left her place 

Unasked up in heaven to show me 
that face. 

I shall hate forever the sounding 
tide; 

For oh, that swirling it is in my head 

As it swept and it swirled with my 
dead not dead, 

As it gasped and it sobbed as a God 
that had died. 


THE QUEEN OF MY DREAMS — 


I dream’d we roam’d in elden 

land; 

I saw you walk in splendid state, 

With lifted head and heart elate, 

And lilies in your white right hand, 

Beneath your proud Saint Peter’s 
dome 

That, silent, lords almighty Rome. 


438 


A diamond star was in your hair, 
Your garments were of gold and 
snow; 
And men did turn and marvel so, 
And men did say, How matchless 
fair! 
And all men follow’d as you pass’d; 
But I came silent, lone, and last. 


And holy men in sable gown, 
And girt with cord, and sandal shod, 
Did look to thee, and then to God. 
They cross’d themselves, with heads 
held down; 
They chid themselves, for fear that 
they 
Should, seeing thee, forget to pray. 


Men pass’d, men spake in wooing 
word; 
Men pass’d, ten thousand in a line. 


THOSE PERILOUS SPANISH EYES 


Some fragrant trees, 
Some flower-sown seas 
Where boats go up and down, 
And a sense of rest 
To the tired breast 
In this beauteous Aztec town. 


But the terrible thing in this Aztec 
town 
That will blow men’s rest to the 
stormiest skies, 
Or whether they journey or they lie 
down— 
Those perilous Spanish eyes! 


Chose Perilous Spanish Epes 


You stood before the sacred shrine, 
You stood as if you had not heard. 
And then you turn’d in calm com 

mand, | 
And laid two lilies in my hand. 


O Lady, if by sea or land 
You yet might weary of all men, 
And turn unto your singer then, 
And lay one lily in his hand, 

Lo! I would follow true and far 
As seamen track the polar star. 


My soul is young, my heart i 
strong; 
O Lady, reach a hand today, | 
And thou shalt walk the milky way, 
For I will give thy name to song. 
Yea, I am of the kings of thought, 
And thou shalt live when kings ar 
not. | 


Snow walls without, 
Drawn sharp about 
To prop the sapphire skies! | 
Two huge gate posts, | 
Snow-white like ghosts— 

Gate posts to paradise! | 


But, oh! turn back from the high- 
walled town! : 
There is trouble enough in this world 
I surmise, | 
Without men riding in regiments 
down— | 

Oh, perilous Spanish eyes! 


MExico City, 1880. 


Sword in hand he was slain; 
he snow his winding sheet; 
he grinding ice at his feet— 
he river moaning in pain. 


anta Ana came storming, as a storm 
might come; 

There was rumble of cannon; there 
was rattle of blade; 

(here was cavalry, infantry, bugle 
and drum— 

- Pull seven proud thousand in pomp 
and parade, 

The chivalry, flower of all Mexico; 
And a gaunt two hundred in the 
Alamo! 


And thirty lay sick, and some were 
shot through; 
For the siege had been bitter, and 
bloody, and long. 
“Surrender, or die!’’—“ Men, what 
will you do?” 
And Travis, great Travis, drew 
sword, quick and strong; 


‘Drew a line at his feet. . “Will 
you come? Will you go? 

I die with my wounded, in the 
Alamo.”’ 


Then Bowie gasped, ‘‘Guide me over 
that line!”’ 

Then Crockett, one hand to the 

sick, one hand to his gun, 

Crossed with him; then never a word 

o7 a sign 


Montgomery at Quebec 


439 


MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC 


Pity and peace at last; 


Flowers for him today 
Above on the battlements gray— 
And the river rolling past. 


THE DEFENSE OF THE ALAMO 


Till all, sick or well, all, all, save 
but one, 
One man. Then a woman stopped 
praying, and slow 
Across, to die with the heroes of the 
Alamo. 


od 


Then that one coward fled, in the 
night, in that night 
When all men silently prayed and 
thought 
Of home; of tomorrow; of God and 
the right; 
Till dawn; then Travis sent his 
single last cannon-shot, 
In answer to insolent Mexico, 
From the old bell-tower of the Alamo. 


Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of 
flame! 
Then the red escalade; then the 
fight hand to hand: 
Such an unequal fight as never had 
name 
Since the Persian hordes butchered 
that doomed Spartan band. 
All day—all day and all night, and 
the morning? so slow, 
Through the battle smoke mantling 
the Alamo. 


440 


Then silence! Such silence! Two 
thousand lay dead 
In a crescent outside! And within? 
Not a breath 
Save the gasp of a woman, with gory, 
gashed head, 
All alone, with her dead there, 
waiting for death; 
And she but a nurse. 
we know 
Another like this of the Alamo? 


Yet when shall 


A Nubian Hace on the ile - 


victor 


Shout “Victory, victory, 
ho!” 
I say, ’tis not always with the host 
that win; 


I say that the victory, high or low, 
Is given the hero who grapples wit 


sin, 

Or legion or single; just asking t 
know 

When duty fronts death in hi 
Alamo. 


A NUBIAN FACE ON THE NILE 


One night we touched the lily 
shore, 
And then passed on, in night indeed, 
Against the far white waterfall. 


I saw no more, shall know no more | 
Of her for aye. And you who read 

This broken bit of dream will smile, 
Half vexed that I saw aught at all, 


PETER COOPER 


Honor and glory forever more 
To this good man gone to rest; 
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore! 
Rest in the land of the blest. 


I reckon him greater than any 
man 
That ever drew sword in war; 


Nobler, better than king or khan, 
Better, wiser by far. 


Aye, wisest he is in this whole wide ; 
land, | 
Of hoarding till bent and gray; 
For all you can hold in your cold, 
dead hand 
Is what you have given away. 


THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE 


The gold that with the sunlight 
lies 
In bursting heaps at dawn, 
The silver spilling from the skies 
At night to walk upon, 


The diamonds gleaming in the dew 
He never saw, he never knew. 


He got some gold, dug from the mud, 
Some silver, crushed from stones; 


And now to fall! 


—— Le Le — ee 
-_— erie beet 


But the gold was red with dead men’s 
blood, 
The silver black with groans; 


From out of the vast, wide 
bosomed West, 
Where gnarled old maples make 


array, 


Deep scarred from Redmen gone to 


rest, 
Where unnamed heroes hew the way 
For worlds to follow in their quest, 


- Where pipes the quail, where squirrels 


play 
Through tops of trees with nuts for 


toy, 


_ A boy stood forth clear-eyed and tall, 
A timid boy, a bashful boy, 

Yet comely as a son of Saul— 

A boy all friendless, all unknown, 


Yet heir apparent to a throne: 


A throne the proudest yet on earth 


- For him who bears him noblest, best, 
And this he won by simple worth, 


That boy from out the wooded West. 
Pale-browed and 
prone 


Hail, fat king Ned! 
Hail, fighting Ted, 
Grand William, 
Grim Oom Paul! 


Garfield 


441 


And when he died he moaned aloud 
“They'll make no pocket in my 
shroud.”’ 


GARFIELD 


“ Bear me out of the baitle, for lo, I am sorely wounded.” 


He lies in everlasting rest. 
The nations clasp the cold, dead 
hand; 
The nations sob aloud at this; 
The only dry eyes in the land . 
Now at the last we know are his; 
While she who sends a wreath has 
won 
More conquests than her hosts had 
done. 
Brave heart, farewell. The wheel 
has run 
Full circle, and behold a grave 
Beneath thy loved old trees is done. 
The druid oaks look up and wave 
A solemn beckon back. The brave 
Old maples welcome, every one. 
Receive him, earth. In center land, 
As in the center of each heart, 
As in the hollow of God’s hand, 
The coffin sinks. And we depart 
Each on his way, as God deems best 
To do, and so deserve to rest. 


TO ANDREW CARNEGIE 


But I’d rather twist 
Carnegie’s wrist, 
That open hand in this 
Than shake hands with ye all. 


442 


Lincoln Park 


LINCOLN PARK 


Unwalled it lies, and openas thesun 
When God swings wide the dark 
doors of the East. 
Oh, keep this one spot, still this one, 
Where tramp or banker, laymen or 
high priest, 


May equal meet before the face Oo 
God: 

Yea, equals stand upon that commor 
sod 

Where they shall one day equals be 

Beneath, for aye, and all eternity. 


RESURGO SAN FRANCISCO 


This tall, strong City stands today 

The fairest, comeliest fashionings 

Of marble, granite, concrete, clay 

That ever fell from human hand; 

That ever flourished sea or land, 

Or wooed the sea-world’s wide white- 
wings. 

This concrete City stands today, 

The newest, truest, man has wrought; 

The kindest, cleanest, strongest, yea 

Twice strongest City, deed or 
thought, 

Thrice strongest ever lost or won— 

Thrice strongest wall, without, within 

That is or ever yet has been 

Beneath the broad path of the Sun. 


Behold her Seven Hills loom white 
Once more as marble-builded Rome. 
Her marts teem with a touch of home 
And music fills her halls at night; 
Her streets flow populous, and light 
Floods every happy, hopeful face; 
The wheel of fortune whirls apace 
And old-time fare and dare hold sway. 
Farewell the blackened,toppling wall, 
The bent steel gird, the somber pall— 
Farewell forever, let us pray; 
Farewell forever and a day! 


How beauteous her lifted brow! 

How heartfelt her harmonious song! 

How strong her heart, how more than 
strong 

She stands rewrought, tefashioned 
now! | 

Her concrete bastions, knit with steel, 

Sing symphonies in stately forms, 

Make harmonies that mock at storms, 

Make music that you can but feel. 

And yet, and yet what ropes of. 
sand, 

What wisps of straw in God’s right 
hand— 

And yet, my risen city, yet 

Your prophets must not now forget: 


Must not forget how you laid hold 

This whole west world as all your 
own— 

How sat this sea-bank as a throne, 

How strewed these very streets with 
gold, 

How laid hard tribute, land and sea, 

Heaped silver, gold incessantly! 

The simple Mexicans’ broad lands 

You coveted, thrust forth both hands, 

Then bade Ramona plead her cause 

In unknown language, unknown laws! 


Resurgo San Francisco 


You robbed her, robbed her without 
shame: 
Ay, even of her virtuous name! 


Nor shall your prophets now forget, 

Now that you stand sublimely 
strong, 

‘How when these vast estates were set 

With granaries that burst in song, 

You spurned the heathen at your 
feet 

Because he begged to toil to eat; 

‘Because he plead with bended head 

For work, for work and barely bread. 

Yea, how you laughed his lack of 
pride, 

And lied and laughed, and laughed 
and lied 

And mocked him, in your pride and 

. hate, 

Then in his gaunt face banged your 

Gate! 


Nay, not forget, now that you rise 
Triumphant, strong as Abram’s song, 
How that you lied the lie of lies 
And wrought the Nipponese such 

wrong, 
Then sent your convict chief to plead 
The President expel them hence. 
Ah me, what black, rank insolence! 
What rank, black infamy indeed! 
Because their ways, their hands were 
clean, 
You feared the difference between, 
Feared they might surely be preferred 
Above your howling, convict herd! 


Their sober, sane life put to shame 
' Your noisome, drunken penal band 
That howled in Labor’s sacred name, 


443 


Nor wrought, nor even lifted hand, 

Save but to stone and mock and moil 

Their betters who but asked to toil. 

Yon harvest-fields cried out as when 

Your country cries for fighting men, 

And yet your hordes, by force and 
fraud, 

Forbade this first, last law of God! 

And you! You sat supinely by 

And gathered gold, nor reckoned why! 


Your great, proud men heaped gold 
on gold; 

They heaped deep cellars with such 
hoard 

Of costliest wines, rich, rare, and old 

As never Thebes or Babel stored— 

They sat at wine till ghostly 
dawn. . 


The ides had come but had not gone; 
For lo! the writing on the wall 

And then the surge, the topple, fall— 
Then dust, then darkness, then such 

light 

As never yet lit day or night, 

And there was neither night nor day, 
For night and day were burned away! 


Hear me once more, my city, heed! 

I may not kiss again your tears 

Nor point your drunken, grasping 
greed, 

For I am stricken well with years, 

But do ye as you erst have done, 

Despise His daughter, mock His 
son— 

If still the sow her wallow keeps 

And wine runs as a rivulet, 

My harp hangs where the willow 
weeps. 


444 


Nay, nay, I must not now forget 
The sin, the shame, the feast, the fall, 
The red handwriting on the wall. 


Then let me not behold once more 
Your flowing cellars, mile on mile, 
A sea of flame, without a shore 
Or even one lone, lifted isle. 
Let me not hear it, feel it choke, 
A wild beast choking in his chain 
The while he tugs and leaps in vain 
And drinks his death of flaming 
smoke. 
Spare me this nightmare, pray you 
; spare 
This black three days of blank 
despair! 
Spare me this red-black, surging sea 
Of leaping, choking agony. 


I call one witness, only one, 

In proof that God is God, and just: 

Yon high-heaved dome, débris and 
dust. 

With torn lips lifted to the sun, 

In desolation still, lords all— 

The rent and ruined City Hall. 


| Cuba Libre 


And here throbbed San Francisco's 
heart, 

And here her madness held high 
mart— 

Sold justice, sold black shame, sold 
hell. 

And here, right here, God’s high hand 


fell, 

Fell hardest, hottest, first and 
worst— 

Your huge high Hall, the most 
accurst! 


Therefore I say tempt not the fates. 

Love meekness more, love folly less. 

The stranger housed within thy gates 

Hold sacred in his lowliness. 

That pride which runs before a fall— 

Behold God’s Angels fell from pride! 

And He, the lowly crucified? 

Ye would have stoned Him, one and 
all. 

Beware the pride of race, beware 


The pride of creed, long pompous 


prayer— 


Who made your High Priest higher 


than 
The humblest, honest Chinaman? 


CUBA LIBRE 


Comes a cry from Cuban water— 
From the warm, dusk Antilles— 

From the lost Atlanta’s daughter, 
Drowned in blood as drowned in 

seas; 

Comes a cry of purpled anguish— 
See her struggles, hear her cries! 

Shall she live, or shall she languish? 
Shall she sink, or shall she rise? 


She shall rise, by all that’s holy! 
She shall live and she shall last; 
Rise as we, when crushed and lowly, 
From the blackness of the past. 
Bid her strike! Lo, itis written,— 
Blood for blood and life for life. 

Bid her smite, as she is smitten; 


Behold, our stars were born of | 


strife! 


The Bead Crar 


‘Once we flashed her lights of freedom, 

| Lights that dazzled her dark eyes 

‘Till she could but yearning heed 

them, 

| Reach her hands and try to rise. 

Then they stabbed her, choked her, 

drowned her, 

_ Till-we scarce could hear a note. 

‘Ah! these rusting chains that bound 

: her! 

Oh! these robbers at her throat! 

And the kind who forged these 

: fetters? 

_ Ask five hundred years for news. 

‘Stake and thumbscrew for their 
betters? 


445 


Inquisitions! Banished Jews! 
Chains and slavery! What reminder 
Of one red man in that land? 
Why, these very chains that bind 
her 
Bound Columbus, foot and hand! 


She shall rise as rose Columbus, 
From his chains, from shame and 
wrong— 
Rise as Morning, matchless, won- 
drous— 
Rise as some rich morning song— 
Rise a ringing song and story, 
Valor, Love personified. . . . 
Stars and stripes, espouse her glory, 
Love and Liberty allied. 


THE DEAD CZAR 


: arin: 
A storm burst forth! From out the 
storm 
_ The clean, red lightning leapt, 
_ And lo! a prostrate royal form . . 
_ And Alexander slept! 
- Down through the snow, all smoking, 
: warm, 
Like any blood, his crept. 
Yea, one lay dead, for millions dead! 
_ One red spot in the snow, 
- For one long damning line of red, 
_ Where exiles endless go— 
The babe at breast, the mother’s head 
Bowed down, and dying so. 


' 


And did a woman do this deed? 
Then build her scaffold high, 


1 


That all may on her forehead read 
Her martyr’s right to die! 
Ring Cossack round on royal steed! 
Now lift her to the sky! 
But see! From out the black hood 
shines 
A light few look upon! 
Lorn exiles, see, from dark, deep 
mines, 
A star at burst of dawn! . . . 


A thud! A creak of hangman’s 
lines !— 
A frail shape jerked and 
drawn lida.) 


The Czar is dead; the woman dead, 
About her neck a cord. 

In God’s house rests his royal head— 
Hers in a place abhorred— 


446 


Yet I had rather have her bed 
Than thine, most royal lord! 
Aye, rather be that woman dead, 
Than thee, dead-living Czar, 


Che Little Brown Man 


| 

To hide in dread, with both hands red, | 

Behind great bolt and bar . . . | 

You may control to the North Pole, 
But God still guides his star. 


THE LITTLE BROWN MAN 


Where now the brownie fisher-lad? 
His hundred thousand fishing- 
boats 
Rock idly in the reedy moats; 
His baby wife no more is glad. 
But yesterday, with all Nippon, 
Beneath his pink-white cherry- 
trees, 
In chorus with his brown, sweet bees, 
He careless sang, and sang right on. 
Take care! for he has ceased to sing: 
His startled bees have taken wing! 


His cherry-blossoms drop like blood; 
His bees begin to storm and sting; 
His seas flash lightning, and a flood 
Of crimson stains their wide, white 
ring; 
His battle-ships belch hell, and all 
Nippon is but one Spartan wall! 
Aye, he, the boy of yesterday, 
Now holds the bearded Russ at bay; 
While, blossom’d steeps above, the 
clouds 
Wait idly, still, as waiting shrouds. 


But oh, beware his scorn of death, 
His love of Emperor, of isles 
That boast a thousand bastioned 
miles 
Above: the clouds where never 
breath 


Of frost or foe has ventured yet, 
Or foot of foreign man has set! 
Beware his scorn of food (his fare 
Is scarcely more than sweet sea- 
air); 
Beware his cunning, sprite-like shila 
But most beware his dauntless will. 


Goliath, David, once again, 
The , giant and” the 
youth— 
The tallest, smallest of all men, 
The trained in tongue, the trained 
in truth. | 
Beware this boy, this new mad man: 
That erst mad man of Macedon, | 
Who drank and died at Babylon; | 
That shepherd lad; the Corsican— | 


shepherd | 


They sat the thrones of earth! Be- 

ware 

This new mad man whose drink i 1s 
air! 


| 
His bees are not more slow to strife, 
But, stirred, they court a common 
death! 
He knows the decencies of life— 
Of all men underneath the sun 
He is the one clean man, the one 
Who never knew a drunken breath! | 
Beware this sober, wee brown man, — 
Who yesterday stood but a span 


ae: ** 


Chilkoot Pass 


3eneath his blossom’d cherry-trees, 
Soft singing with his brother bees! 


The brownie’s sword is as a snake, 
A sudden, sinuous copperhead: 
[it makes no flourish, no mistake, 
It darts but once—the man is 
dead! 


447 


‘Tis short and black; ’tis never seen 
Save when, close forth, it leaps its 
sheath 
And, snake-like, darts up from be- 
neath. 
But oh, its double edge is keen! 
It strikes but once, then on, right on: 
The sword is gone—the Russ is gone! 


CHILKOOT PASS 


And you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 

That rock-locked gate to the golden 
door! 

These thunder-built 
words built to suit, 

And whether you prayed or whether 
you swore 

’Twere one where it seemed that an 
oath was a prayer— 

- Seemed God couldn’t care, 

Seemed God wasn’t there! 


steeps have 


‘And you, too, climbed to the Klon- 
dyke 
‘And talked, as a friend, to those 
: five-horned stars! 
With muckluck shoon and with 
talspike 
You, too, bared head to the bars, 
The heaven-built bars where morning 
is born, 
: And drank with maiden morn 
From Klondyke’s golden horn! 


And you, too, read by the North 
Lights 
Such sermons as never men say! 
You sat and sat with the midnights 
That sit and that sit all day; 
You heard the silence, you heard the 
room, 
Heard the glory of God in the 
gloom 
When the icebergs boom and boom! 


Then come to my Sunland, my 
soldier, 
Aye, come to my heart and to 
stay; 
For better crusader or bolder 
Bared never a breast to the fray. 
And whether you prayed or whether 
you cursed 
You dared the best and you dared 
the worst 
That ever brave man durst. 


THE FOURTH IN HAWAIIAN WATERS 


_ Sail, sail yon skies of cobalt blue, 
 Ostar-built banner of the brave! 


We follow you, exult in you 
Or Arctic peak or sapphire wave; 


448 


From mornlit Maine to dusk Luzon, 
Or set of sun or burst of dawn. 


From Honolulu’s Sabbath seas, 
From battle-torn Manila’s bay 

We toss you bravely to the breeze 
This nation’s natal day to stay— 

To stay, to lead, lead on and on 

Or set of sun or burst of dawn. 


Light of the Southern Cross 


O ye who fell at Bunker Hill, 
O ye who fought at Brandywine, 
Behold your stars triumphant still; 
Behold where Freedom builds he 
shrine, 
Where Freedom still leads on anc 
on, 
Or set of sun or burst of dawn. 


LIGHT OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS 


A POEM ON THE UNION OF THE OCEANS AT PANAMA 


Espousal of the vast, void seas, 

Where God’s spirit moved upon 

The waters ere the burst of dawn 

Is of creation’s majesties— 

God’s six days’ work was not quite 
done 

Till man made these two seas as one. 


The piteous story of men drowned, 
The beauteous story of the dove, 
And olive leaf and God’s great love 
Still lives wherever man is found, 
And still His rainbow banners rise 
Above the cloud-embattled skies. 


Behold, the gaudy ships of Spain 
With cross-hilt sword dared distant 
seas, 

Dared death and the Antipodes, 

To find the farthest, utmost main. 

They found it—and such ruin laid 

That e’en dusk Paynim were dis- 
' mayed. 


They found it, found the vast void 
seas . 


Where God had said, ‘‘Let there be 
light.”’ 

They turned God’s morning into 
night 

With cross-bone 
breeze— 

Their trust was pike and sword and 
shot 

And all was as if God were not. 


banner to the 


They made a trade of war. They 
laid 

Such tribute in their greed for gold 

On helpless heathen, young and old, 

That slavery grew a common trade. 

They built great ships, they said all 
seas 

Be but the passive serfs of these. 


They gathered as in one great breath 

Huge battleships of all the seas, 

With not one note of love or peace | 

Huge isles of steel all rank with death, 

Death manned and bannered, gold 
on gold, 

A thousand slaves in each dark hold. — 


Light of the Southern Cross 


Which shall prevail, mad men of 

: strife 

With steel-built walls, shot, shell and 

sword, 

Or loving angels of the Lord 

With peace and love and precious life? 

“Peace, peace on earth, goodwill to 

: men,” 

God’s angels sang, but what since 
then? 


Two thousand years of doubts and 
fears 
Since angels sang God’s message clear 
To men who could not choose but 
hear— 
And still man’s tyranny and tears, 
And still great decks of guns and 
gold— 
A thousand slaves in each dark hold! 


They sailed, they met at Panama, 

_A thousand bannered battleships, 

With great guns loaded to the lips, 

To laugh, to mock God’s love and 
law; 

When lo! a peace upon them lay 

Like to that holy natal day. 


And men all mute with wonderment, 

_ Famed martial men sword-girt and 
bold, 

Looked up and suddenly—behold! 

The boundless heavens sown and 

blent 

With such soft beauteous blaze of 

light 

As shepherds knew that natal night. 


| The love-lit Southern Cross o’er- 
spread 


29 


449 


The heavens as that one great star 
That led the wise men from afar 
To find that humble tavern shed. 
Where Mary Mother waited them 
Within the walls of Bethlehem. 


Now great men garmented with gold 

Forgot their pride, forgot their state, 

Their love of war, their piteous hate, 

And called their mute slaves from the 
hold. 

The cross of stars gave forth such 
light 

They could but see and know the 
right. 


The star-built cross stood out so clear 

Great sword-girt men forgot to say 

But silent, crossed themselves to 
pray, 

And there leaned, listening, to hear 

His angels sing as on that morn 

The Christ at Bethlehem was born. 


The seas lay like a harvest land; 

White ships were lilies stately, fair, 

White peace lay on them like a 
prayer, 

Vast peace poured down so bless’d, 
so bland— 

The rich unfolding of a rose 

That only dewy morning knows. 


’'Tis done! The seven seas are one 
Without the rending of a sheet, 
Without one signal of defeat, 
Without the firing of a gun. 

Go home, you useless battleships, 
Nor open once your iron lips. 


450 


Mark this! God’s spirit moved upon 
The waters e’er the world was made. 


Mark this! Christ said, “Be not 
afraid.’ 
Mark this! Henceforth no sword is 
drawn. 
Mark this! The Deluge, Galilee— 


All waters are but one great sea! 


My brave Evangels, forth and preach 
The love of beauty, cloud or clod, 
The love that leads to love of God, 
The God in all, the good in each. 
For God has said of weed or wood, 
“Behold, it all is very good.” | 


Teach man the love of man and teach 

The grace of Faith, Hope, Charity, 

The bare brown earth, the blossomed 
tree. 

To hear these high priests preach and 
preach 

In sweet persistent harmony— 

What chorus like the wind-kissed 
tree? 


Is man to be the last on earth 

To slay his kind, to rend and tear? 

Behold the monstrous great cave bear 

Has passed, her huge paws nothing 
worth, 

With all her kindred beast of prey, 

Shall man be last, so less than they? 


Let there be light, the light that was 
That first, vast void and voiceless day 
When God pushed darkness far away 
And spake the first creative cause. 
Let there be light, the light of love, 
The lift of sun-lit boughs above. 


Light of the Southern Cross 


Come, let us consecrate the trees | 
To God, with neither creed nor tule, 
Each bough to be a vestibule | 
Broad open, breezy as the seas, 

A song, a sermon, in each leaf— 
His birds they are so wisely brief. 


God loves the man who loves a tree, 

The plumed tree “pleasant to the 
sight.’ | 

His birds sing on in sweet delight, 

Low voiced and ever pleasantly, 

Of Him who rears it from the seed 

As next to God in word and deed. 


And he who plants a stony steep 
Or wards some wooded, watered 
glade. i | 
Where man may not make them 
afraid, 
The while they nest or clucking 
creep ) 
The tall, green, fragrant, growing 
sod, 


They sense in partnership with God. 


To hear the chant of topmost trees 


That lord Sierra’s silent steep, 


When earth and sky are hushed in | 


sleep, 
Is heeding heaven’s mysteries, 
So deeper than the song of seas 
And sweeter than man’s harmonies. 
I beg, I plead for Light, ‘‘more 
Light.” 
I think if man might only see 


The beauty, glory, majesty 

Of but the humblest plant in sight, 
He then might learn to lift his eyes 
Up, up to the majestic skies; 


Light of the Southern Cross 


And seeing there the peace of all, 
The silent, happy harmony, 

He then might pause a breath and he 
Might let his glad eyes restful fall 
To earth, and in each fragrant sod 
First sense the living soul of God. 


And seeing good, of all a part, 

Some tithe of good, but yet the seed 
Of greater things in word and deed; 
He then might take man to his heart 
And lead him loving into light 

‘From out his narrow walls of night. 


My brave Evangels, pity hate! 
God’s pity for such fellowkind, 
‘The blind who lead the doubly blind, 
‘God's pity for such piteous state! 
‘Man is not wicked, man is weak— 
He smites, turn then the other cheek. 


The morning stars forever sing 
‘From out the awful arch of night: 
“Let there be Light, let there be 

Light, 

-God’s Light, forever pitying!”’ 

Poor man made blind with haste and 
hate, 

Who will not see God’s open gate! 


My swordless, brave Evangelist, 
Lead forth, lead up the shining way 
Saint Paul, that blest, immortal day, 
| Uprose from out the blinding mist, 

The kingliest figure man may see 
This side the Cross of Calvary. 


And what, when red swords rust and 


rust 


And glittering ploughshares greet the 


sun? 


451 


Ah me, what deed shall then be 
done— 

What worlds of valor, duty, trust— 

What worlds of thought, what un- 
known seas 

Of shoreless, deep discoveries! 


When man shall lift his face and look 

Straight in at heaven’s opened door, 

What courage to explore, explore 

And read God’s beauteous star- 
strewn book, 

What songs of conquest, sea and air, 

When man shall truly do and dare! 


What are the stars for, tell me, man? 
I say He made each one, that they, 
Bright stars, or dimmest Milky Way, 
Are peopled to His will and plan; 
Behold each street of stars is fair 
And peopled with His perfect care. 


No, nature wastes not one brief 
breath: 

She knows no void, unpeopled place. 

Then tell me not that yon vast space 

Is voiceless as the doors of death, 

That allis but a desert where 

His stars stretch upward as a stair. 


Believe it not. As well believe 

That the wise Vestal Virgins bore 

Brown waters from wild Tiber’s 
shore 

Unto their shrine in open sieve. 

As well believe white marble shed 

Red blood the while prone Caesar 
bled. 


Columbus of the cobalt blue, 
Rise up and pierce thy chartless main, 


452 


Bring glory, bring glad news again 

As you were wont of old to do: 

Bring news of new worlds while men 
scoff— 

Yon worlds we see but know not of. 


Fare forth in Faith, devoted, fond, 
Forgetful of the mocking shore— 
Explore, explore and still explore— 
Beyond, beyond and stil] beyond: 
You could not see one dimmest speck 
Of Indies from your Nina’s deck. 


Yet here above all brooding night, 

Lo, every street of heaven strewn 

Withworlds far brighter thanour own, 

And each as some brave eee 
light ;— 

Fare forth and light us up the way 

To Light, to Light and endless Day. 


Fare forth above earth’s urge and 
roar—_ 

The morning stars sang at earth’s 
dawn— 

The morning stars they still sing on— 

Fare forth and hear the stars once 
more 

Sing as they sang to light unfurled 

That primal morning of the world. 


Light of the Southern Cross 


The while you pass high heaven 
door 

And voyage on so far, so far | 

You speak souls of that utmost star | 

And still explore, explore, explore, | 

Then back to earth; then death shall 
be | 

No more man’s nightmare mystery. | 


Then shall we know serene, secure, 
Of scenes beyond the set of sun— 
That life is but a play begun | 


That death is but a change of scene, | 


A night of rest, ’neath rose and bay _ 


With bright morn but a breath away. | 


The while brave men all unafraid 
Shall conquer elements and space 
And speak tall dim forms face to face. 


And find out why the stars were | 


made: 


Aye find out whether beck —what 


shores 
Beyond the sea-girt, gray Azores. 


Yea, these the victories of Peace, 
The priceless victories to be 

When men forsake their Polar seas 
And dare God’s door in rivalry: 


When mind shall master force ten- 


fold, 
And fear be as a tale that’s told. 


| 


we 


wn 
oO 
Z 
O 
% 
n 
53) 
e) 
p4 
i) 1 
= 
=) 
ic 
eH 
= 
sa 
n 


453 


IN CLASSIC SHADES 


Alone and sad I sat me down 
To rest on Rousseau’s narrow isle 
Below Geneva. Mile on mile, 
And set with many a shining town, 
Tow’rd Dent du Midi danced the 
wave 
Beneath the moon. Winds went and 
: came 
‘And fanned the stars into a flame. 
T heard the far lake, dark and deep, 
Rise up and talk as in its sleep; 
T heard the laughing waters lave 
And lap against the further shore, 
: An idle oar, and nothing more 
Save that the isle had voice, and save 
: That ’round about its base of stone 
‘There plashed and flashed the foamy 
: Rhone. 


 Astately man, as black as tan, 
Kept up a stern and broken round 

: Among the strangers on the ground. 
‘T named that awful African 

A second Hannibal. 


I gat 


With chin in upturned palm to scan 
His face, and contemplate the scene. 
_ The moon rode by, a crownéd queen. 
-Iwasalone. Lo! not aman 
To speak my mother tongue. Ah me! 
How more than all alone can be 


A man incrowds! Across the isle 


: 
| 
| My elbows on the table; sat 
| 
} 
| 


My Hannibal strode on. The while 
Diminished Rousseau sat his throne 
Of books, unnoticed and unknown. 


This strange, strong man, with face 


austere, 

At last drew near. He bowed; he 
spake 

In unknown tongues. I could but 
shake 


My head. Then half achill with fear, 

Arose, and sought another place. 

Again I mused. The kings of thought 

Came by, and on that storied spot 

I lifted up a tearful face. 

The star-set Alps they sang a tune 

Unheard by any soul save mine. 

Mont Blanc, as lone and as divine 

And white, seemed mated to the 
moon. 

The past was mine; strong-voiced and 
vast 

Stern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and 
Tell, 

And two whose names are known too 
well 

To name, in grand procession passed. 


And yet again came Hannibal; 
King-like he came, and drawing 
near, 
I saw his brow was now severe 
And resolute. 


455 


456 


In tongue unknown 
Again he spake. I was alone, 


Was all unarmed; was worn and sad; 


But now, at last, my spirit had 
Its old assertion. 


I arose, 
As startled from a dull repose: 
With gathered strength I raised a 
hand 
And cried, “IT do not understand.” 


His black face brightened as I 
spake; 
He bowed; he wagged his woolly 
head; 
He showed his shining teeth, and said, 
“Sah, if you please, dose tables heah 
Am consecrate to lager beer: 
And, sah, what will you have to 
take?’’ 


Chat Gentle Man from Boston 


: 
: 
Nott hat I loved that colored cuss 
Nay! he had awed me all too much— 
But I sprang forth, and with a clutch 
I grasped his hand, and holding thus, 
Cried, “‘ Bring my country’s drink for 
two!” : 
For oh! that speech of Saxon sound ) 
To me was as a fountain found | 
In wastes, and thrilled me through 
and through. 


On Rousseau’s isle, in Rousseau’s 


shade, 


Two pink and spicy drinks were | 


made, 
In classic shades, on classic ground, 


We stirred two cocktails round and | 


round. 


THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON 


AN IDYL OF OREGON 


Two noble brothers loved a fair 
Young lady, rich and good to see; 
And oh, her black abundant hair! 
And oh, her wondrous witchery! 
Her father kept a cattle farm, 

These brothers kept her safe from 
harm: 


From harm of cattle on the hill; 
From thick-necked bulls loud bellow- 
ing 
The livelong morning, long and shrill, 
And lashing sides like anything! 
From roaring bulls that tossed the 
sand 
And pawed the lilies of the land. 


There came a third young man. 
He came 
From far and famous Boston town. 
He was not handsome, 
6a game,”’ 


But he could ‘‘cook a goose’ as brown | 


As any man that set foot on 
The mist kissed shores of Oregon. 


This Boston man he taught the 
school, 
Taught AP sie Ly and Bass alway, 
Said love and kindness, as a rule, 
Would ultimately ‘make it pay.” 
He was so gentle, kind, that he 
Could make a noun and verb agree. 


was not | 


That Gentle Man from Boston 


So when one day these brothers 

/ grew 

All jealous and did strip to fight, 

He gently stood between the two 

And meekly told them ’twas not right. 

er have a higher, better plan,” 

Outspake this gentle Boston man. 

_ “My plan is this: Forget this fray 

‘About that lily hand of hers; 

Go take your guns and hunt all day 

High up yon lofty hill of firs, 

And while you hunt, my ruffled doves, 

Why, I will learn which one she 
loves.” 


The brothers sat the windy hill, 
‘Their hair shone yellow, like spun 
gold, 
“Their rifles crossed their laps, but still 
They sat and sighed and shook with 
cold. 


Their hearts lay bleeding far below; 
Above them gleamed white peaks of 


snow. 


Their hounds lay crouching slim 
and neat, 


_ Aspotted circle in the grass. 
The valley lay beneath their feet; 
They heard the wide-winged eagles 


pass. 
| Two eagles cleft the clouds above; 
“Yet what could they but sigh and 
love? 


“Tf I could die,’ the elder sighed, 
‘My dear young brother here might 
wed.”’ 
“‘Oh, would to heaven I had died!” 


457 


The younger sighed with bended 
head. 

Then each looked each full in the face 

And each sprang up and stoodin place. 


“Tf I could die’—the elder spake, 
‘Die by your hand, the world would 
say 
'Twas accident—; and for her sake, 
Dear brother, be it so, I pray.” 
‘¢Not that!’’ the younger nobly said; 
Then tossed his gun and turned his 
head. 


And fifty paces back he paced! 
And as he paced he drew the ball; 
Then sudden stopped and wheeled 

and faced 
His brother to the death and fall! 
Two shots rang wild upon the air! 
But lo! the two stood harmless there! 


Two eagles poised high in the air; 
Far, far below the bellowing 
Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere 
Vast silence sat all questioning. 
Thespotted hounds ran circling round, 
Their red, wet noses to the ground. 


And now each brother came to 
know 
That each had drawn the deadly ball; 
And for that fair girl far below 
Had sought in vain to silent fall. 
And then the two did gladly ‘‘shake, ” 
And thus the elder gravely spake: 


“Now let us run right hastily 
And tell the kind schoolmaster all! 
Yea! yea! and if she choose not me, 
But all on you her favors fall, 


458 illiam Brown of Cregon 


This valiant scene, till all life ends, That long-nosed man from Bostaal 


Dear brother, binds us best of friends. 


The hounds sped down, a spotted 

line, 

The bulls in tall abundant grass 

Shook back their horns from bloom 
and vine, 

And trumpeted to see them pass— 

They loved so good, they loved so 
true, 

These brothers scarce knew what to 
do. 


They sought the kind schoolmaster 
out 
As swift as sweeps the light of morn— 
They could but love, they could not 
doubt 
This man so gentle, “in a horn,” 
They cried: ‘‘Now whose the lily 
hand— 
That lady’s of this emer’ld land?” 


They bowed before that big-nosed 
man, 


town; 
They talked as only lovers can, 
They talked, but he would only cov 
And still they talked and still thes 
plead; 
It was as pleading with the dead. 


At last this Boston man did | 
speak— 
‘‘Her father has a thousand ceows, | 
An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; 
He also had this ample heouse.” 
The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat | 
So far you might have hung your hat. _ 


“TI liked the looks of this big 
heouse— | 

My lovely boys, won’t you come in? 

Her father had a thousand ceows— 

He also had a heap o’ tin. 

The guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you | 
see— } 

The guirl, this morning married me.” 


WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON 


They called him Bill, the hired 

man, 
But she, her name was Mary Jane, 
The squire’s daughter; and to reign 
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan 
Her little game. How lovers rash 
Got mittens at the spelling school! 
How many a mute, inglorious fool 
Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed 

mustache? 


This hired man had loved her long, 
Had loved her best and first and last, 


Her very garments as she passed 

For him had symphony and song. 

So when one day with flirt and frown _ 

She called him ‘‘Bill,” he raised his 
head, 

He caught hereye and faltering said, 

“‘T love you; and my name is Brown.” 


She fairly waltzed with rage; she 
wept; 
You would have thought the house 
on fire. 
She told her sire, the portly squire, 


| 

oF 
a 

y Ai 

| 

| 

} 

| 


William Brown of Oregon 


‘hen smelt her smelling-salts and 
slept. 

oor William did what could be done; 

le swung a pistol on each hip, 

le gathered up a great ox-whip 

ind drove right for the setting sun. 


He crossed the big backbone of 

earth, 

Je saw the snowy mountains rolled 

ike mighty billows; saw the gold 

ME great big sunsets; felt the birth 

)f sudden dawn upon the plain; 

And every night did William Brown 

Sat pork and beans and then lie down 

And dream sweet dreams of Mary 
Jane. 


Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt 

in packs, 

[They sought for bigger game; some- 
how 

They seemed to see about her brow 

The forky signs of turkey tracks. 

The teeter-board of life goes up, 

The teeter-board of life goes down, 

The sweetest face must learn to 
frown; 

The biggest dog has been a pup. 


O maidens! pluck not at the air; 
The sweetest flowers I have found 
Grow rather close unto the ground 
And highest places are most bare. 
Why, you had better win the grace 
Of one poor cussed Af-ri-can 
Than win the eyes of every man 
In love alone with his own face. 


At last she nursed her true desire. 
She sighed, she wept for William 
Brown. 


459 


She watched the splendid sun go down 

Like some great sailing ship on fire, 

Then rose and checked her trunks 
right on; 

And in the cars she lunched and 
lunched, 

And had her ticket punched and 
and punched, 

Until she came to Oregon. 


She reached the limit of the lines, 
She wore blue specs upon her nose, 
Wore rather short and manly clothes, 
And so set out to reach the mines. 
Her right hand held a Testament, 
Her pocket held a parasol, 

And thus equipped right on she went, 
Went water-proof and water-fall. 


She saw a miner gazing down, 
Slow stirring something with a spoon; 
‘‘O, tell me true and tell me soon, 
What has become of William Brown?” 
He looked askance beneath her specs, 
Then stirred his cocktail round and 


round, 

Then raised his head and sighed pro- 
found, 

And said, ‘‘He’s handed in his 
checks.”’ 


Then care fed on her damaged 

cheek, 

And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, 

And smelt her smelling salts in vain, 

Yet wandered on, way-worn and 
weak. 

At last upon a hill alone, 

She came, and there she sat her down; 

For on that hill there stood a stone, 

And, lo! that stone read, “ William 
Brown.” 


460 


“O William Brown! 
Brown! 
And here you rest at last,” she said, 
“With this lone stone above your 
head, 
And forty miles from any town! 
I will plant cypress trees, I will, 
And I will build a fence around, 
And I will fertilize the ground 
With tears enough to turn a mill.” 


O William 


She went and got a hired man, 
She brought him forty miles from 
town, 
And in the tall grass squatted down 
And bade him build as she should 
plan. 
But cruel cowboys with their bands 
They saw, and hurriedly they ran 
And told a bearded cattle man 
Somebody builded on his lands. 


He took his rifle from the rack, 
He girt himself in battle pelt, 


HORACE GREELEY’S DRIVE 


The old stage-drivers of the brave 

old days! 

The old stage-drivers with their dash 
and trust! 

These old stage-drivers they have 
gone their ways 

But their deeds live on, though their 
bones are dust; 

And many brave tales are told and 
retold 

Of these daring men in the days of old: 


Of honest Hank Monk and his 
Tally-Ho, 


Horace Greeley’s Drive 


And ’cross to Nevada, ‘ 


< 
| 
Lal 
. 
i 
i 


He stuck two pistols in his belt, vod 
And mounting on his horse’s back, 
He plunged ahead. But when they 

shewed 
A woman fair, about his eyes | 
He pulled his hat, and he likewise | 
Pulled at his Neard: and chewed 7 
chewed. 


] 
At last he gat him down and spake; 


‘‘O lady, dear, what do you here?” 
‘‘T build a tomb unto my dear, | 
I plant sweet flowers for his sake.” 
The bearded man threw his two hands | 
Above his head, then brought them | 
down | 
And cried, ‘O, Iam William Brown, 
And this the corner-stone of my 
lands!” | 


And the Prince married her and they | 
lived happy ever after. 


When he took good Horace in his | 
stage to climb ] 
The high Sierras with their peaks of _ 
snow | 
‘and come in | 

on time;” 


But the canyon below was so deep— __ 


oh! so deep— 


And the summit above was so steep— _ 


oh! so steep! 


The horses were foaming. 


The 
summit ahead 


4 
ret | 
Be | 
| 

| 

iia | 
| 


eemed as far as the stars on a still, 
clear night. 

nd steeper and steeper the narrow 
route led 

‘1 up to the peaks of perpetual 
white; 

Jut faithful Hank Monk, with his 
face to the snow, 

iat silent and stern on his Tally-Ho! 


Sat steady and still, sat faithful and 
true 

lo the great, good man in his charge 
that day; 

Jat vowing the man and the mail 
should “go through 

Jn time’? though he bursted both 
brace and stay; 

Jat silently vowing, in face of the 
snow, 

Je’d “get in on time” with his 

Tally-Ho! 


But the way was so steep and so 
slow—oh! so slow! 

'Twas silver below, and the bright 
silver peak 

Was silver above in its beauty and 
glow. 

An eagle swooped by, Hank saw its 
hooked beak; 

When, sudden out-popping a head 

: snowy white— 

‘Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada 

tonight!”’ 


With just one thought that the 
mail must go through; 
With just one word to the great, good 
man— 


Horace Greelep’s Drive 


461 


But weary—so weary—the creaking 
stage drew 

As only a weary old creaking stage 
can— 

When again shot the head; came 
shrieking outright: 

““Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Ne- 
vada tonight!”’ 


Just then came the summit! And 

the far world below, 

It was Hank Monk’s world. But he 
no word spake; 

He pushed back his hat to that fierce 
peak of snow! 

He threw out his foot to the eagle and 
brake! 

He threw out his silk! 
his reins! 

And the great wheels reeled as if reel- 
ing snow skeins! 


He threw out 


The eagle was lost in his crag up 

above! 

The horses flew swift as the swift 
light of morn! 

The mail must go through with its 
message of love, 

The miners were waiting his bright 
bugle horn. 

The man must go through! 
Monk made a vow 

As he never had failed, why, he 
wouldn’t fail now! 


And 


How his stage spun the pines like a 
far spider’s web! 
It was spider and fly in the heavens 
up there! 
And the clanging of hoofs made the 
blood flow and ebb, 


462 


For ’twas death in the breadth of a 
wheel or a hair. 

Once more popped the head, and the 
piping voice cried: 
“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!” 

Monk replied! 


But no 


Then the great stage it swung, as if 
swung from the sky; 
Then it dipped like a ship in the deep 
jaws of death; 


That Faithful Wite of Mahe 


Then the good man he gasped as a | 


gasping for breath, 


When they deem it is coming thal 


hour to die. 


: 
And again shot the head, like a 


battering ram, 


And the face it was red, and the wo 


they were hot: 
“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk! 
care a (mill?) dam. 
Whether I lecture in Nevada or not!” 


THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO 


Huge silver snow-peaks, white as 
wool, 
Huge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in 
grass, 
And belly deep, and belly full, 
Their flower beds one fragrant mass 
Of flowers, grass tall-born and grand, 
Where flowers chase the flying snow! 
Oh, high held land in God’s right 
hand, 
Delicious, dreamful Idaho! 


We rode the rolling cow-sown hills, 
That bearded cattle man and I; 
Below us laughed the blossomed rills, 
Above the dappled clouds blew by. 


We talked. The topic? Guess. 
Why, sir, 

Three-fourths of all men’s time they 
keep 


To talk, to think, to be of HER; 
The other fourth they give to sleep. 


To learn what he might know, or 
how, 
I laughed all constancy to scorn. 


I domi : 


| 
| 


“Behold yon happy, changeful cow! | 


Behold this day, all storm at morn, 
Yet now ’tis changed by cloud ant 
sun, 


Yea, all things change—the heart, the | 


head, 
Behold on earth there is not one 
That changeth not in love,” I said. 


He drew a glass, as if to scan 


The steeps for steers; raised it and _ 


sighed. 
He craned his neck, this cattle man, 


Then drove the cork home and re- 


plied: 


‘For twenty years (forgive these 


tears), 


For twenty years no word of strife— _ 


I have not known for twenty years 
One folly from my faithful wife.” 


T looked that tarn man in the face— | 


That dark-browed, bearded cattle 
man. 


He pulled his beard, then drone in 


place 


Saratoga and 


broad right hand, all scarred and 
tan, 
nd toyed with something shining 
_ there 
bove his holster, bright and small. 
was convinced. I did not care 
‘0 agitate his mind at all. 


“But rest I could not. Know I must 

‘he story of my stalwart guide; 

lis dauntless love, enduring trust; 

lis blesséd and most wondrous bride. 
wondered, marveled, marveled 

: much; 

Vas she of Western growth? Was 

im she 

¥f Saxon blood, that wife with such 

Iternal truth and constancy? 


-Icould not rest until I knew— 
‘Now twenty years, my man,” I 
im said, 

‘Isa long time.’’ He turned, he drew 
{ pistol forth, also a sigh. 

"Tis twenty years or more,” sighed 
im he. 

‘Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow 


SARATOGA AND 


These famous waters smell like— 
well, 

Those Saratoga waters may 

[Taste just a little of the day 

Mf judgment; and the sulphur smell 

Bees, along with other things, 

4 climate rather warm for springs. 


| But restful as a twilight song, 
The land where every lover hath 
is spring, and every spring a path 


the Psalmist 463 
I do not doubt that this may be; 
But tell, oh! tell me truly how?” 


‘“oMwould make a poem, pure and 
grand; 
All time should note it near and far; 
And thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land 
Should stand out like some winter 
star. 
America should heed. And then 
The doubtful French beyond the 
sea— 
’T would make them truer, nobler men 
To know how this might truly be.” 


‘OTis twenty years or more,” urged 

he; 

“Nay, that I know, good guide of 
mine; 

But lead me where this wife may be, 

And Ia pilgrim at a shrine, 

And kneeling as a pilgrim true’’— 

He, leaning, shouted loud and clear: 

“T cannot show my wife to you; 

She’s dead this more than twenty 
year.” 


THE PSALMIST 


To lead love pleasantly along. 
Oh, there be waters, not of springs— 
The waters wise King David sings. 


Sweet is the bread that lovers 
eat 
In secret, sang on harp of gold, 
Jerusalem’s high king of old. 
“The stolen waters they are sweet!” 
Oh, dear, delicious piracies 
Of kisses upon love’s high seas! 


464 


The old traditions of our race 
Repeat for aye and still repeat; 
The stolen waters still are sweet 
As when King David sat in place, 
All purple robed and crowned in gold, 
And sang his holy psalms of old. 


Oh, to escape the searching sun; 
To seek these waters over sweet; 
To see her dip her dimpled feet 
Where these delicious waters run— 


A TURKEY HUNT IN TEXAS 


(AS TOLD AT DINNER) 


No, sir; 

But soft, place it there, 

Lest friends may make question and 
strangers may stare. 

Ah, the thought of that hunt in the 
cafion, the blood 

Nay, gently, please, gently! 
open a flood 

Of memories, memories melting me 
so 

That I rise in my place and—excuse 

me—lI go. 

You must have the story? 
And you, lady fair? 
And you, and you all? 

blood and despair; 
And ’twere not kind in me, not manly 
or wise 
To bring tears at such time to such 
beautiful eyes. 


You 


No? 


Why, it’s 


I remember me now the last time I 
told 

This story a Persian in diamonds and 
gold 


QA Turkep Hunt in Texag ‘ 


To dip her feet, nor slip nor fall, | 
Nor stain her garment’s hem at all: 


Nor soil the whiteness of her feet 
Nor stain her whitest german 
hem— | 
Oh, singer of Jerusalem, 
You sang so sweet, so wisely sweelll 
Shake hands! shake hands! I guess 
you knew : 
For all your psalms, a thing or two. | 


no turkey for me, sir. | Sat next to good Gladstone, there was 


Wales to the right, 

Then a Duke, then an Earl, and such 
ladies in white! 

But I stopped, sudden stopped, lest 
the story might start 

The blood freezing back to each | 
feminine heart. 

But they all said, ‘‘The story!” just : 
as you all have said, | 

And the great Persian monarch 
nodded his head 

Till his diamond- decked feathers fall, 
glittered and rose, 

Then nodded almost to his Ishmaelite 
nose. | 

The story! Ah, pardon! ’T was | 

high Christmas tide 

And just beef and beans; yet the | 
land, far and wide, | 

Was ae with such turkeys of silver 
and gold, | 

As never men born to the north | 
behold. 


1d Apaches? Aye, Apaches, and 
they took this game 

a pen, tolled it in. Might not we 
do the same? 

) two of us started, strewing corn, 
Indian corn, 

ow’'rd a great granite gorge with the 
first flush of morn; 

tarted gay, laughing back from the 
broad mesa’s breast, 

t the bravest of men, who but 
warned for the best. 


We built a great pen from the sweet 

cedar wood 

‘umbled down from a crown where 

| the sentry stars stood. 

Scarce done, when the turkeys in line 

—such a sight! 

Xicking corn from the sand, russet 
gold, silver white, 

And so fat that they scarcely could 

waddle or hobble. 

And ’twas ‘‘Queek, tukee, queek,”’ 

and ’twas, ‘‘gobble and gobble!”’ 

And their great, full crops they did 

wabble and wabble 

As their bright, high heads they did 

bob, bow and bobble, 

Down, up, through the trench, crowd- 

ing up in the pen. 

Now, quick, block the trench! Then 

the mules and the men! 


| Springing forth from our cove, 
guns leaned to a rock, 
How we laughed! Whata feast! We 


had got the whole flock. 
30 


A Turkey Bunt in Texas 


405 


How we worked till the trench was all 
blocked close and tight, 

For we hungered, and, too, the near 
coming of night, 
Then the thought of our welcome. 
The news? We could hear 
Already, we fancied, the great hearty 
cheer 

As we rushed into camp and exult- 
ingly told 

Of the mule loads of turkeys in silver 
and gold. 

Then we turned for our guns. 
guns? In their place 

Ten Apaches stood there, and five 
guns in each face. 


Our 


And we stood! we stood straight 
and stood strong, track solid to 
track. 

What, turn, try to fly and be shot 
in the back? 

No! We threw hats in the air. We 
should not need them more. 

And yelled! Yelled as never yelled 
man or Comanche before. 

We dared them, defied them, right 
there in their lair. 

Why, we leaned to their guns in our 
splendid despair. 

What! spared us for bravery, because 
we dared death? 

You know the tale? Tell it, and 
spare me my breath. 

No, sir. They killed us, killed us 
both, there and then, 

And then nailed our scalps to that 
turkey pen. 


USLAND 


466 
And where lies Usland, Land of 
Us? 
Where Freedom lives, there Usland 
lies! 
Fling down that map and measure 
thus 


Or argent seas or sapphire skies: 
To north, the North Pole; south, as 
far 
As ever eagle cleaved his way; 
To east, the blazing morning star, 
And west! West to the Judgment 
Day! 


No borrowed lion, rampt in gold; 
No bleeding Erin, plaintive strains; 
No starving millions, mute and cold; 
No plundered India, prone in 
chains; 


THAT USSIAN OF USLAND 


“Tam an Ussian true,”’ he said; 
“Keep off the grass there, Mister 
Bull! 
For if you don’t, I’ll bang your head 
And bang your belly-full. 


“Now mark, my burly jingo-man, 
So prone to muss and fuss and cuss, 
I am an Ussian, spick and span, 

From out the land of Us!” 


The stout man smole a frosty smile— 
“An Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or 
Russ? ’”’ 
‘No, no! an Ussian, every while; 
My land the land of Us.” 


Gslanbd 


No peaceful farmer, forced to ly 
Or draw his plowshare from the So¢ 
And fighting, one to fifty, die 


For freedom, fireside, and God. 


Fear not, brave, patient, free-bor 


Boers, 
Great Usland’s heart is yours to 
day. . 
Aye, England’s heart of hearts i: 

yours, 


Whatever scheming men may say. 
Her scheming men have mines to sell, 
And we? Why, meat and corn 


. 


and wheat. | 
But, Boers, all brave hearts wish you 
well; | 

For England’s triumph means, 
defeat. 


5 
q 


“Aw! Usland, Outland? or, maybe, 
Some Venezuela I’d forgot. | 

Hand out your map and let me see ‘| 
Where Usland is, and what.” 


The Yankman leaned and spread his 
map | 
And shewed the land of Us and 
shewed, | 
Then eyed and eyed that paunchy 
chap, 2 | 
And pulled his chin and chewed, 


‘What do you want?”” A face grew 


red, 


And red chop whiskers redder grew. 


Hays 


[ want the earth,” the Ussian 
said, 
** And all Alaska too. 


My stars swim up yon seas of blue; 
No Shind am I, Boer, Turk or 
Russ. 


SAYS 


Says Plato, “Once in Greece the 
gods 

Mucked grapes, pressed wine, and 

reveled deep 

\nd drowsed below their poppy-pods, 

And lay full length the hills asleep. 

Then, waking, one said, ‘Overmuch 

We toil: come, let us rise and touch 
ed clay, and shape it into man, 

That he may build as we shall plan!’ 

And so they shaped man, all complete, 

Self-procreative, satisfied ; 

Two heads, four hands, four feet. 


“ And then the gods slept, heedless, 
long; 

But waking suddenly one day, 

They heard their valley ring with 
song 

And saw man reveling as they. 

Enraged, they drew their swords and 

said, 

-*Bow down! bend down!’—but man 

i - replied 

Defiant, fearless, everywhere 

His four fists shaking in the air. 

_ The gods descending cleft in twain 

"Bach man; then wiped their swords on 
grapes; 

And let confusion reign. 


Ilato 


467 


I am an Ussian—Ussian true; 


My land the land of Us. 


“My triple North Star lights me on, 


My Southern Cross leads ever thus; 


My sun scarce sets till burst of dawn. 


Hands off the land of Us”: 


PLATO 


“ And such confusion! each halfran, 
Ran here, ran there; or weep Or laugh 
Or what he would, each helpless man 
Ran hunting for his other half. 

And from that day, thenceforth the 


grapes 

Bore blood and flame, and restless 
shapes 

Of hewn-down, helpless halves of 
men, 


Ran searching ever; crazed, as when 

First hewn in twain, they grasped, let 
£0, 

Then grasped again; but rarely found 

That lost half once loved so.” 


Now, right or wrong, or false or 

true, 

'Tis Plato’s tale of bitter sweet; 

But I know well and well know you 

The quest keeps on at fever heat. 

Let Love, then, wisely sit and wait! 

The world is round; sit by the gate, 

Like blind Belisarius: being blind, 

Love should not search; Love shall 
not find 

By searching. Brass is so like gold, 

How shall this blind Love know new 
brass 

From pure soft gold of old? 


468 


WELCOME TO THE GREAT AMERICAN OCEAN | 


Aloha! Wahwah! Quelle raison? 
Ship ahoy! What sails are these? 
What tuneful Orpheus, what Jason 
Courts Colchis and her Golden 
Fleece? 
For never since the oak-keeled Argo 
Such sweet chords, such kingly cargo. 


Never since the faa Magellan 
Dared the Philippines and died, 
Did these boundless billows swell in 
Such surprised and saucy pride. 
Are they laughing, chaffing at you? 

Waiting but to bang and bat your 


Doughty Vikings, dauntless Norse- 
men, 
White-maned stallions plunge and 
fret; 
Ride them, ride them, daring horse- 
men, 
Ride or perishin . . . . the wet! 
Galleons, doubloons galore 
Paved of old this proud sea floor! 


Carabellos, caballeros! 

Where your boasted Totus Munda? 
Chile carne con tamales. ... 

And the bull-fght of a Sunday! 
That is all there is to say 
Of all your yesterdays, today. 


Heed my heroes, heed the story; 
Gone the argent galleon; 
Gone the gold and gone the glory, 
Gone the gaudy, haughty Don. 
His sword, his pride, sleep side by 
side, 
Nor reck, at all, yond ebb or tide. 


CHelcome to the Great American @rean 


Ye who buckle on bright armor, | 
Read and heed nor boast at all : 
Till ye have worn it warm and warmer 
Fronting pride that runs to fall. | 
And heed, my heroes, where away | 
We all, a span of years today? ; 
But welcome, walls of flame and 
thunder, 
Isles of steel and miles of launchall 
Welcome to these seas of wonder, 
Men of war with olive branche 
Welcome to dear Crusoe’s seas, | 
These sundown seas, this sun-born 
breeze. 


Welcome to the oldest, newest! 
Here God’s spirit moved upon 
The waters, these the broadest, bluest, 
Ere that sudden burst of dawn 
Dividing day from primal night, | 
When He said, “Let there be light.” | 


But, beware the wild tornadoes! 
Entre nous, they are terrific! 
Scout that dago’s gay bravados! 
Cut that silly name, Pacific! 
Balboa, wading to his knees, | 
Cried: “Lo, the calm, pacific seas!” 


Straightway Cortez hewed his head 
off! 
Nay, blame not, accuse nor cavil. 
Spite of all that has been said of 
He should have hewed it to the 
navel; 
Aye, cut his neck off to his knees, 
For naming these “Pacific Seas!” 


acific? No, American! 

‘Her go, her get there, gown or gun! 
fer British, ‘‘Get, and keep who 
can: 

All places, races, rolled in one. 
lacific Ocean? Mild of motion? 


Jever such a silly notion! 


i0, beware the sometimes tidal 
Wave Tahitian, where bananas 
athe; where fig-leafed parties bridal 
) Dine in tree-tops on mafianas! 


Two Wise Old Men in Omar's Land 


469 


Samoa’s typhoons, too, beware— 
Her mermaids combing kinky hair. 


Aye, tidals, typhoons, ’clones beware! 

But when you touch sea-set Nippon, 

Where lift three thousand isles mid- 
air, 

And each an Eden dear as dawn, 
With dimpled Eves and dainty elves— 
Why, then beware your bloomin’ 

selves. 


| TWO WISE OLD MEN OF OMAR'S LAND 


The world lay as a dream of love, 

Lay drowned in beauty, drowsed in 
peace, 

Lay filled with plenty, fat-increase, 

Lay low-voiced as a wooing dove. 

And yet, poor, blind man was not 

| glad, 

But to and fro, contentious, mad, 

Rebellious, restless, hard he sought 

‘And sought and sought—he scarce 
knew what. 


The Persian monarch shook his head, 
Slow twirled his twisted, raven beard, 
As one who doubted, questioned, 
feared. 
Then called his poet up and said: 
“What aileth man, blind man, that 
he, 
 Stiff-necked and selfish, will not see 
Yon gorgeous glories overhead, 
_ These flowers climbing to the knee, 
" As climb sweet babes that loving cling 
To hear a song?—Go forth and sing eh 


The poet passed. He sang all day, 

Sang all the year, sang many years, 

He sang in joy, he sang in tears, 

By desert way or watered way, 

Yet all his singing was in vain. 

Man would not list, man would not 
heed 

Save but for lust and selfish greed 

And selfish glory and hard gain. 


And so at last the poet sang 

In biting hunger and hard pain 

No more, but tattered, bent and gray, 

He hanged his harp and let it hang 

Where keen winds walked with wintry 
rain, 

High on a willow by the way, 

The while he sought his king to cry 

His failure forth and reason why. 


The old king pulled his thin white 
beard, 
Slow sipped his sherbet nervously, 


470 

Peered right and left, suspicious 
peered, 

Thrummed with a foot as one who 
feared, 


Then fixed his crown on close; then he 

Clutched tight the wide arm of his 
throne, 

And sat all sullen, sad and lone. 


At last he savagely caught up 
And drained, deep drained, 
jeweled cup; 
Then fierce he bade his poet say, 
And briefly say, what of the day? 
The trembling poet felt his head, 
He felt his thin neck chokingly. 
“Oh, king, this world is good to see! 
Oh, king, this world is beautiful!’’ 
The king’s thin beard was white as 
wool, 
The while he plucked it terribly, 
Then suddenly and savage said: 
“Out that! cut that! or lose your 
head!”’ 


his 


The poet’s knees smote knee to knee, 

The poet’s face was pitiful. 

““Have mercy, king! hear me, hear 
me! 

This gorgeous world is beautiful, 

This beauteous world is good to see; 

But man, poor man, he has not time 

To see one thing at all, save one—”’ 


“Haste, haste, dull poet, and have 
done 

With all such feeble, foolish rime! 

No time? Bah! man, no bit of time 

To see but one thing? Well, that 
one?” 


Two Wise Old Men in Omar’s Land 


“That one, oh, king, that one fait 
thing | 

Of all fair things on earth to see, 
Oh, king, oh, wise and mighty king, | 
That takes man’s time continually, 1 
That takes man’s time and drinks | 
li 
! 
| 
i 
i 
i 


up 
As you have drained your jeweled 
cup 
Is woman, woman, wilful, fair— 
Just woman, woman, everywhere!” 


The king scarce knew what next to 
do; 

He did not like that ugly truth; 

For, far back in his sunny youth, 

He, too, had loved a goodly few. 

He punched a button, punched it 
twice, 

Then as he wiped his beard he said: } 

“Oh, threadbare bard of foolish rime, 

If man looks all his time at her, 

| 


! 
Sees naught but her, pray tell me, sir, i 


Why, how does woman spend hea 
time?” | 


The singer is a simple bird, } 
The simplest ever seen or heard. | 
It will not lie, it knows no thing | 
Save but to sing and truly sing. 
The poet reached his neck, his head, 
As if to lay it on the shelf 
And quit the hard and hapless trade | 
Of simple truth and homely rime 
That brought him neither peace nor | 
pelf; 
Then with his last, faint gasp he said: ; 
“Why, woman, woman, matron, 
maid, 
She puts in all her precious time 
In looking, looking at herself!” 


Two Wise Oly Men in Omar's Land 


_silence then was heard to fall 

o hard it broke into a grin! 

the old king thought a space and 
thought 

)}f when her face was all in all— 

Vhen love was scarce a wasteful 
sin, 

{nd even kingdoms were as naught. 

\t last he laughed, and in a 
trice 


471 


He banged the button, banged it 
thrice, 

Then clutched his poet’s hand and 
then 

These two white-bearded, wise old 

men 

They sat that throne and chinned and 
chinned, 

And grinned, they did, and grinned 
and grinned! 


SONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS 


473 


pe ee 
Pe Ay 
Mea): i 


Wi ee 
ua ew 
tas 


we 


COLUMBUS 


Behind him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the Gates of Hercules; 

| Before him not the ghost of shores; 

Before him only shoreless seas. 

The good mate said: “Now must 
we pray, 

For lo! the very stars are gone, 


_ Brave Adm’r’l speak; what shall I 


say?” 
“Why, say: ‘Sail on! sail on! and 
on!’”’ 


“My men grow mutinous day by 


day; 
My men grow ghastly, wan and 
weak.” 
The stout mate thought of home; a 
spray 


Of salt wave washed his swarthy 
cheek. 
“What shall I say, brave Adm’r'l, 


say, 
If we sight naught but seas at 
dawn?’”’ 
“Why, you shall say at break of 
day: 


1’? 
° 


‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on 


They sailed and sailed, as winds 


might blow, 
Until at last the blanched mate 
said: 
“Why, now not even God would 
know 


Should I and all my men fall dead. 


These very winds forget their way, 
For God from these dread seas is 


gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm’r’l, speak and 
Say a 
He said: ‘‘Sail on! sail on! and 
rogi eis 


They sailed. They sailed. Then 
spake the mate: 
“This mad sea shows his teeth 
tonight. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait, 
He lifts his teeth, as if to bite! 
Brave Adm’r’l, say but one good 
word: 
What shall we do when hope is 
gone?” 
The words leapt like a leaping sword: 
Sai] on! sail on! sailon! and on!”’ 


Then pale and worn, he paced his 
deck, 
And peered through darkness. 
Ah, that night 


Of all dark nights! And then a 
speck—— 
A light! Alight! At last a light! 


It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! 
It grew to be Time's burst of 
dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that 
world 
Its grandest lesson: ‘On! sail on!” 


475 


476 


@ Song of Creation 


A SONG OF CREATION 


The bravest, manliest man ts he 

Who braves the brede, who breaks the 

sod, 

Who sows a seed, who plants a tree, 
Who turns and tears the barren clod, 
In partnership with God is he— 
Himself a very part of God, 
Aye, God’s anointed, God's 

priest. 
And he who sees, who knows to see 

As saw the eager seers of old, 

Is of the ‘‘wise men of the East,” 
Is richer than all Araby 
In incense, myrrh and gifts of gold. 


high 


The nobiest woman, bravest, best 
Of all brave souls beneath the sun? 
I say the queeniiest is that one— 
Seek north or south or east or west— 
Who loves to fold the little frock 
And hear the cradle rock and rock. 
L say the purest woman, best 
Beneath our forty stars, is she 
Who loves her spouse most ardently 
And rocks the cradle oftenest— 
Who rocks and sings and rocks, and 
then, 
When birds are nesting, rocks again. 


CANTO I 
I 


A yucca crowned in creamy bloom, 

A yucca freighted with perfume, 

Breathed fragrance up the blossomed 
steep; 

The warm sea winds lay half asleep, 

Lay drowsing in the dreamy wold 


By Saint Francisco’s tawny Bay, 

As if to fold, forever fold, 

Worn, wearied wings and rest 
alway 

In careless, languid Arcady. 


17 


Some clean, lean Eucalyptus trees, 
Wind-torn and tossing to the blue, 
Kept ward above the silent two 
Who sat the fragrant sundown seas 
Above the sounding Golden Gate 
Nor questioned overmuch of fate; 
For she was dowered, gold on gold, 
With wealth of face and form un- 
told! 
And he was proud and passionate. 


III 


Ten thousand miles of mobile sea— 
This sea of all seas blent as one 
Wide, unbound book of mystery, 
Of awe, of sibyl prophecy, 

Ere yet a ghost or misty ken 

Of God’s far, first Beginning when 
Vast darkness lay upon the deep; 
As when God’s spirit moved upon 
Such waters cradled in such sleep 
Such night as never yet knew dawn, 
Such night as weird atallaph weaves 
But never mortal man conceives. 


IV 


He looked to heaven, God; but 
she ; 
Saw only his face and the sea. 


: 
| 
f 
| 
| 
| 


Q@ Song of Creation 


He said—his fond face leaned to 
hers, 

The warmest of God’s worshipers— 

“Tn the beginning? Where and 
when, 

Before the fashioning of men, 

Swung first His high lamps to and 
fro, 

To light us as we please to go? 

And where the waters, dark deeps 
when 

God spake, and said, ‘Let there be 
light’? 

They still house where they housed, 
as then, 

Dark curtained with majestic night— 

Dusk Silence, in travail of Light 

That knew not man or man’s, at all— 

Steel battle-ship or wood-built wall. 


V 


“Aye, these, these were the waters 
when 

God spake and knew His fair first- 
born— 

That silent, new-born baby morn, 

Such eons ere the noise of men. 

His Southern Cross, high-built about 

The deep, set in a town of stars, 

Commemorates, forbids a doubt 

That here first fell God’s golden 


bars— 

Red bars, with soft, white silver 
blent, 

Broad sown from sapphire firma- 
ment. 


VI 


“Behold what wave-lights leap and 
run 


477 


Swift up the shale from out the sea 
Tnwove with silver, gold and sun! 
Light lingers in the tawny mane 

Of wild oats waving lazily 

Far upon the climbing poppy plain; 
Far up yon steeps of dusk and 


dawn— 

Black night, white light, inwound as 
one. 

But when, when fell that far, first 
dawn 


With ways of gold to walk upon? 
VII 


“‘T know not when, but only know 

That darkness lay upon yon deep, 

Lay cradled, as a child asleep, 

And that God’s spirit moved upon 

These waters ere the burst of dawn 

When first His high lamps to and 
fro 


Swung forth to guide which way to 


go. 


VIll 


“T only know that Silence keeps 

High court forever still hereon, 

That Silence lords alone these deeps 

The silence of God’s house, and 
keeps 

Inviolate yon water’s face. 

As if still His abiding place, 

As ere that far, first burst of dawn 

Ere fretful man set sail upon. 


IX 


‘The deeps,” he mused, “‘are still as 
when 


478 


Dusk Silence kept her curtained bed 


Low moaning for the birth of 
dawn, 

When she should push black night 
aside, 


As some ghoul nightmare most 
abhorred— 

When she might laughing look upon 

God’s first-born glory, holy Light— 

As when fond Eve exulting cried, 

In mother-pain, with mother-pride, 

‘Behold the fair first-born of men! 

I gat a man-child of the Lord!’” 


Xx 


As one discerning some sweet nook 
Of wild oats, mantling yellow, pink, 
Will pass, then turn and turn to 
look, 
Then pass again to think and think, 
Then try to not turn back again, 
But try and try to quite forget 
And, sighing, try and try in vain: 
So you would turn and turn again 
To her, her girlish woman’s grace— 
Full-flowered yet fond baby’s face. 


XI 


Her wide, sweet mouth, an opened 
rose, 

Pushed out, reached out, as if to 
kiss; 

A mobile mouth in proud repose 

This moment, then unlike to this 

As storm to calm, as day to night, 

As sullen darkness to swift light: 

This new-made woman was, the sun 

And surged sea interwound in one. 


@ Song of Creation 


XII 


Her proud and ample lips pushed 
out 

As kissing sea-winds unaware; 

And then they arched in angry 
pout, 

As if she cared yet did not care. 

Then lightning lit her great, wide 
eyes, 

As if black thunder walled the skies, 

And all things took some touch of | 


her, 
The while she stood nor deigned to | 
stir: 
The while she saw with vision 
dim— 


Saw all things, yet saw only him. 


XIII 


Such eyes as compass all the skies, 

That see all things yet naught have 
seen; yt 

Such eyes of love or sorrow’s eyes— 

A martyr or a Magdalene? 

How sad that all great souls are sad! | 

How sad that gladness is not glad— 

That Love’s sad sister is sweet Pain, 

That only lips of beauty drain 

Life’s full-brimmed, glittering goblet 
dry, 

And only drain the cup to die! . 


| 


XIV 


The yellow of her poppy hair 

Was as red gold is, when at rest; i 
But when aroused was as the west H 
In sunset flame and then—take care! 
Her tall, free-fashioned, supple form 


Was now some sudden, tropic storm 
Was now some lily leaned at play. 
What sea and sun, sunshine and 
| shower, 

Full flowered ere the noon of day, 
Full June ere yet the morn of May, 
‘This sun-born blossom of an hour— 

: Precocious Californian flower! 


XV 


: She answered not but looked away 
“With brown hand arched above her 
brow,— 
As peers a boatman from his prow,— 
To where white sea-doves wheeled at 
play. 
She watched them long, then turned 
and sighed 
And looking in his face she cried, 
While blushing prettily, “‘ Behold, 
There is no mateless dove, not one! 
And see! not one unhappy dove. 
Ten thousand circling in the sun, 
Entangled as the mesh of fate, 
Yet each remains as true as gold 
And constant courts his pretty mate. 


“See here! See there! Behold, 
above— 

I think each dove would die for 
love.”’ 

He watched the shallows spume the 

| shore 


_ And fleck the shelly, drifting shale, 
Then far at sea his swift eyes swept 
Where one tall, stately, snow-white 
| sail 

Its silent course majestic kept 


@ Song of Creation 


479 


XVI 


“The shallows murmur and com- 
plain, 

The shallows turn with wind and 
tide, 

They fringe with froth and moil the 
main; 

They wail and will not be denied— 

Poor, puny babes, unsatisfied! 


XVII 


““The lighthouse clings her beetling 
steep 

Above the rock-sown, ragged shore 

Where Scylla and Charybdis roar 

And dangers lurk and shallows keep 

Mad tumult in the house of sleep. 


The shallows moan and moan | 
alway— 
The deeps have not one word to 
say. 
XVIII 


“T reckon Silence as a grace 

That was ere light had name or 
place; 

A saint enshrined ere hand was laid 

To fashioning of man or maid. 

For, storm or calm, or sun or shade, 

Fair Silence never truth betrayed; 

For, ocean deep or dappled sky, 

Saint Silence never told a lie.” 


CANTO II 
I 


From out the surge of Sutro’s steep, 
Beyond the Gate a rock uprears, 


_ And gloried in its alien mood, 
_ As his own soul in solitude. 


480 


So sudden, savage, unawares 

The very billows start and leap, 

As frightened at its lifted face, 

So shoreless, sealess, out of place: 

A sea-washed, surge-locked isle, as 
lone 

As lorn Napoleon on his throne— 

His Saint Helena throne, where still 

The dazed world in dumb wonder 
turns 

To his high throned, 
will 

And incense burns and ever burns. 


imperious 


Here huge sea-lions climb and 
cling, 

Despite the surge and seethe and 
shock 


The topmost limit of the rock, 
And one is named Napoleon, king. 
Behold him lord the land, the sea, 
In lone, unquestioned majesty! 


II 


She saw, she raised alert her head 

With eager face and cheery said: 

“What lusty, upheaved, bull-built 
neck! 

What lungs to lift above the roar! 

What captain on his quarter-deck 

To mock the sea and scorn the 
shore! 

I like that scar across his breast, 

I like his ardent, lover’s zest!’’ 


III 


The huge sea-beast uprose, uprose, 

As if to surely topple down; 

He reached his black and bearded 
nose 


@ Song of Creation 


Above his harem, gray, black, 
brown, 

Sleek, shining, wet or steaming 
dry, 


And mouthed and mouthed against 


the sky. 
IV 


What eloquence, what hot love pain! 

What land but this, what love but 
his? 

What isle of bliss but this and this— 

To roar and love and roar again? 

What land, what love but this his 
own, 

Loud thundered from his slippery 
throne; 

Loud thundered in his Sappho’s ear, 

As if she could not, would not hear. 


V 


At last her heart was moved and | | 
she | 
Raised two bright eyes to his black | 
beard, 
Then sudden turned, as if she feared, | 
And threw her headlong in the sea, 
Another Sappho, all for love. 
While Phaon towered still above— 
An instant only; yet once more 
That upheaved head, that great bull | 
neck, 
That sea-born, bossed, bull- throat 
roar— 
A poise, a plunge, a flash, a fleck, 
And far down, caverned in the deep, 
Where sea-green curtains swing and | 
sweep 
And varicolored carpets creep, 


Soft emerald or amethyst, 
Two lion lovers kept sweet tryst. 


Vi 


She looked, looked long, then smiled, 

then sighed, 

A proud, pure soul unsatisfied, 

Then sat dense grasses suddenly 

And thrust a foot above the sea. 

She threw her backward, arms wide 

out, 

And up the poppy-spangled steep 

O’er grass-set cushions sown in gold, 

As she would sleep yet would not 
sleep. 

She reached her wide hands fast 
about 

And grasses, gold and manifold, 

Of lowly blossoms, pink and blue, 

She gathered in and laughing threw, 

With bare-armed, heedless, happy 

grace— 

Threw fragrant handfuls in his face. 

And then as if to sleep she lay, 

A babe nursed at the breast of 
May— 

Lay back with wide eyes to the 

: skies 

- And clouds of wondrous butterflies; 

_ Such Mariposa blooms in air! 

_ Such bloomy, golden, poppy hair! 

_ And which were hers or poppy’s 

gold 

_ Without close care none could have 

told; 

And which were butterflies or bloom, 

To guess there was not guessing 

room, 

The while, in quest of sweets or 

rest, 


3r 


Q Song of Creation 


481 


They fanned her face, they kissed her 
breast. 


eat 


Vil 


That face like to a lilt of song— 

A face of sea-shell tint, with tide 

Of springtime flowing fast and strong 

And fearless in its maiden pride— 

Such rich rose ambushed in such 
hair 

Of heedless, wind-kissed, poppy gold 

Blown here, blown there, blown any- 
where, 

Soft-lifting, falling fold on fold, 

As made gold poppies where she lay 

Turn envious, turn green as May! 

What wise face yet what wilful face, 

A face that would not be denied 

No more than gipsy winds that race 

The sea bank in their saucy pride; 

A form that knew yet only knew 

The natural, the human, true. 


VIII 
Those two round mounds of Nine- 
veh, 
What treasures of the past they 
knew! 
But these two round mounds here , 
to-day 


Hold treasures richer far than they, 

And prophecies more truly true. 

Old Nineveh’s twin mounds are 
dust; 

They only know the ghostly past; 

But these two new mounds hold in 
trust 

The awful future, hold the vast 

Unbounded empire, land or sea, 


482 


Henceforth, for all eternity. 


Let pass dead pasts; far wiser 
turn... 

And delve the future; love and 
learn. 


IX 


It seems she dreamed. She slept, we 
know, 

A happy, quiet little space, 

Then thrust a round limb far below 

And half-way turned aside her face, 

And then she threw her arms wide 
out 

In sleep, and so reached blind about 

As if for something she might find 

From fortune-telling, gipsy wind. 


XxX 


The soft, warm winds from far away 

Were weary, and they crept so near 

They lay against her willing ear 

As if they had so much to say. 

And she, she seemed so glad to hear 

The while she loving, sleeping lay 

And dreamed of love nor dreamed of 
doubt, 

But laughing thrust her form far 
out 

And down the fragrant poppy steep 

In playful, restless, happy sleep. 

She sighed, she heaved her hilly 
breast, 

As one who would but could not rest. 


XI 


How natural, how free, how fair, 
The while the happy winds on wing, 


| Song of Creation 


As larger butterflies, laid bare 

A rippled, braided rim of white 

And outstretched ankles exquisite. 
What arms to hold a babe at breast— 
Such breast as prudist never guessed! 
What shapely limbs, what everything | 
That makes great woman great and) 


good— 

That makes for proud, pure mother-| 
hood! 

XII 

Such thews as mount the steeps of | 
morn, | 

Such limbs as love, not lust shall 
share, | 


Such legs as God has shaped to. 
bear 


The weight of ages, worlds unborn; | 


Such limbs as Lesbian — shrines 
revealed 
When comely, longing mothers 
kneeled; | 
Such thews as Phidias loved to | 
hew, ei 
Such limbs as Leighton loved to | 
draw | 
When painting tall, Greek girls at 
play; | 


Such legs as blind old Homer saw, 

As Marlowe knew but yesterday, 

When Helen climbed in dreams for | 
him 

Her cloud-topped towers of Ilium. | 


CANTO III é | 
I 


White sea-gulls glistened in the 
sun— 


Ten thousand if a single one— 

And every sea-dove knew his mate. 
Par, far at sea, the Farallones 

Sent up a million plaintive moans 
From sea-beasts moaning love, or 
hate. 

The sun sank weary, flushed and 
worn, 

The warm sea-winds sank tattered, 
torn, 

The sun and sea lay welded, wed; 
The day lay crouched upon the 


deep 
Half closed, as eyes half closed in 
| sleep, 
Half closed, as some good book half 
read. 


II 


The sea was as an opal sea 

Inlaid with scintillating light, 

Yet close about and left and right 

The sea lay banked and bossed in 
night, 

As black as ever night may be. 


Il 


The sundown sea all sudden then 

Lay argent, pallid, white as death. 

“As when some great thing dies; as 

when 

A god gasps in one final breath 

And heaves full length his somber 
bed. 

The sundown sea now shone, mobile, 

“Translucent, flaming, molten steel, 

Red, green, then tenfold more than 
red, 

And then of every hue, a hint 


Q Song of Creation 


483 


Of doubloons spilling from the mint, 
Alternate, changing, manifold, 
Yet melting, minting all to gold. 


IV 


Far mountain peaks flashed flecks of 
gold 

And dashed with dappled flecks the 
skies. 

‘Behold,’ said he, ‘‘the fleecy fold 

Now slowly, surely, homeward hies. 


Such cobatt blue, such sheep of 
gold, 

Such gold as hath not place or 
name 


In elsewhere land, because no seer 
Hath seen or dauntiless prophet told 
Where stood the loom in primal 


peace 

That wove the fair, first golden 
fleece. 

Behold, what gold-flecked flocks of 
Light! 


Ten million moving sheep of gold, 
Wee lambs of gold that nudge their 


dams, 
Great horned, wrinkled, heady 
rams! 
V 


‘‘ Slow-shepherded, the golden sheep, 

With bent horns lowered to the 
deep, 

Come home; the hollows of the sea 

Receive and house them lovingly. 

The little lambs of Light come 
home 

And house them in the argent foam, 


484 


@ Song of Creation 


The while He counts them every ; Oh happy, happy nudging lambs, 


one, 
And shuts the Gate, for day is done. 


VI 


“Aye, day is done, the dying sun 

Sinks wounded unto death to-night; 

A great, hurt swan, he sinks to rest, 

His wings all crimson, blood his 
breast! 

What wide, low wings, reached left 
and right, 

He sings, and night and swan are 
one— 

One huge black swan of Helicon. 


VII 


“What crimson breast, what crimson 
wings 

The while he dies, and dying sings! 

Yet safe is housed the happy fold, 

The golden sheep, the fleece of gold 

That lured the dauntless Argonaut— 

The fleece that daring Jason 
sought.” 


VIII 


She waking sighed, soft murmuring, 

As waters from some wood-walled 
spring: 

‘Oh happy, huge, horn-headed rams, 

To guide and lead the golden fleece, 

To ward the fold of fat increase 

Fast mated to your golden dams! 

What bridal gold, what golden bride, 

What golden twin lambs, side by 
side! 


Thrice happy, happy golden dams!” 
1X 


| 
His face was still against the west; | 
For still a flush of gold was there | 
| 

| 


rest, 
But seemed some night bird of the 
air. 
At last, with half-averted head 
And dreamfully, as dreaming, said: | 
“What banker gathers yonder gold | 
That sinks, sea-washed, beyond the| 
deeps? | 
Lie there no sands to house and | 
hold | 
This sunset gold in countless heaps? | 
There sure must be some far, fierce | 


That would not or that could noel 


land, 
Some Guinea shore, some fire-fed | 
strand, 
Some glowing, palm-set, pathless | 
spot | 


Where all this sunset gold is stored, | 
As misers gather hoard on hoard. | 
There sure must be, beyond this — 

sea, 
Some Argo’s gold, some argosy, 
Some golden fleece, long since for- | 

got, 
To wait the coming Argonaut,” 


x 


She sprang up sudden, Savagely, 

And flushed, and paled, looked far 
away. 

Grinding gold poppies with her heel. 


She could not say, she could but 
feel. 

She nothing said, because that they 
Who really feel can rarely say. 

And then she looked up, forth and 
far, 

And pointed to the pale North 
Star, 

The while her color went and came 
From pink to white, from frost to 
flame. 


XI 


For this, the one forbidden theme, 
‘The one hard, dread, unquiet dream 
That he should go, lead forth and 
} far 

Below the triple Arctic star, 

As he had planned; and now to 
speak, 
To hint—she 
cheek, 

Hard had she tried, had fain forgot 
How strong, strange men were trend- 
| ing far 
_ Against this cold, elusive star, 

And he their Jason—Argonaut! 


heard with pallid 


CANTO IV 
i 


How passing fair, how wondrous fair, 

This daughter of the yellow sun! 

Her sunlit length and strength of 
hair ‘ 

Seemed sun and gold inwound in 
one. 

How strangely silent, unaware, 

Unconscious quite of strength or 
grace 


Q@ Song of Creation 


485 


Or peril of her beauteous face, 

She stood, the first-born of a race, 

A proud, new race, scarce yet begun. 
How tall she stood, free debonair— 
How stately and how supple, tall, 
The time she loosened and let fall 
Her tossed and mighty Titian hair! 


Il 


So beautiful she was, as one 

From out some priceless picture- 
book! 

You could but love, you had no 
choice 

But love and turn again to look. 

How young she was and yet how 
old!— 

Red orange ripened in the sun 

Where never hand had reached as 
yet. 

The calm strength of her lifted face, 

The low notes of her tuneful voice, 

Were mint-marks of that wondrous 
race 

But scarcely born nor known as yet 

Beyond yon yellow hills that fret 

Warm sea-winds with their waving 
pine. 

A princess of that royal line 

Of kings who came and silent passed, 

Yet, passing, set bold, royal hand 

And mighty mint-marks on the land, 

And set it there to last and last, 

As if in bronzen copper cast. 


Ill 


He, too, was born of men who wooed 
The savage walks of solitude, 


486 


And hewed close, clean to nature’s 
laws— 

Of men who knew not tears or fears, 

Of men full-sexed, yet men who 
knew 

Not sex till perfect manhood was. 

When men had thews of antique 

And one stood with the strength of 
ven: 

When men gat men who dared to 
do; 

Gat men of heart who dwelt apart, 

As Adam dwelt, when giants grew 


And men as gods drew ample 
breath— 


Adams 
years, 
Ere drunkenness of sex had done 
The silly world to willing death. 


As with their thousand 


IV 


What royal parentage, what true 

Nobility, those men who knew 

The light, who chased the yellow 
sun 

From sea to sea triumphantly, 

And westward fought and westward 
won, 

As never daring man had done. 


V 
They housed with God upon the 
height; 
Companioned with the peak, the 
pine; 


They led the red-lit firing line. 
Walled ’round by room and room and 
room, 


A Song of Creation 


They read God’s open book at nigit 
And drank His star-distilled per 
fume; | 
By day they dared the trackles; 
west | 
And chased the battling sun to rest. | 


| 
VI | 


Such sad, mad marches to the sea, 
Such silent sacrifice, such trust! 
Such months of marching, misery, | 
Such mountains heaped with heroes’ 
dust! 
Yet what stout thews the fearless 
few | 
Who won the sea at last, who knew | 
The cleansing fire and laid hold | 
To hammer out their house of gold! | 


VII 


| 

Their cities zone their sea of seas, _ 

Their white tents top the mountain’s 
crest, 

The coward? He trenched not with 
these. | 

The weakling? He was laid to rest. 

Each man stood forth a man, such | 
men | 

As God wrought not since time | 
began, 

Each man a hero, lion each. 

Behold what length of limb, what 
length 

Of life, of love, what daring reach 

To deep-hived honeycomb! What 
strength! 

How clean his hands, how stout his 
heart 


To dare, to do, camp, court or 
mart. 

He stands so tall, so clean, he hears 
The morning music of the spheres. 


Vill 


He loved her, feared her, far apart, 
He kept his ways and dreamed his 
dreams; 

He sang strange songs, he tuned his 
heart 

“To music of the pines that preach 
Such sermons on such holy themes 
As only he who climbs can reach. 


IX 


He would not selfish pluck one 
rose 
To wear upon his breast a day 
And let its perfume pass away 
With any wind that comes or goes. 
Why, he might walk God’s garden 
through 
Nor touch one bud nor fright one 
bird. 

The music of the spheres he heard, 
_ The harmony he breathed, he knew. 
_ He never marred God’s harmony 
With one harsh thought. The fav- 
ored few 
Who cared to live above the sod 
And lift glad faces up to God 
He knew loved all as well as he, 
Had equal right to rose or tree. 


x 


And he must spare all to the day 
Their willing feet should pass the way 


A Song of Creation 


487 


God in His garden walked at eve. 

And as for weaklings who by turn 

Would jest or jeer, he could but 
grieve, 

And pity all and silent say: 

“Tet us lead forth, make fair the 


way; 
By time and stress they, too, will 

learn 
Which way to live, to love, to 

butting 


XI 


The long, lean Polar bear uprose, 

Outreached a paw, a bare, black 
nose, 

As if to still hold hard control, 

By glacier steep or ice-packed main, 

His mighty battlemented snows. 

He bared his yellow teeth in vain; 

Then backed against his bleak North 
Pole 

He sulked and shook his icy chain. 

And he who dared not pluck a rose, 

As if in chorus with his pine, 

Must up and lead the battle line 

Beyond the awesome Arctic chine. 


XII 


No airy sighs, no tales to tell; 

He knew God is, that all is well, 

That death is but a name, a date, 

A milestone by the stormy road, 

Where you may lay aside your 
load 

And bow your face and rest and 
wait, 

Defying fear, defying fate. 


488 @ Song of Creation 


XIII The two stood mute, estranged 


before | 
Her high-built, stately, opened door 
High up the terraced, plunging hill 


How fair is San Francisco Bay 
When golden stars consort and 


when As hushed as death, as white and. 
The moon pours silver paths for etill | 
men, 


| 
And care walks by the other way! | 
Huge ships, black-bellied, lay below 


Broad, yellow flags from. silken 


XVI 
| 


The moon, amid her yellow fleet, | 


Chind, With full, white sail, moved on and ; 
Round, blood-red banners from Nip- on, | 
pon, 


Like to her sun at sudden dawn— 


Brave battleships as white as 
snow, 

With bannered stars tossed to the 
wind, 


Warm as a kiss when love is kind. 


XIV 


"Twas twilight, such soft, twilight 
night 

As only Californians know, 

When faithful love is forth, and 


when 

The Bay lies bathed in mellow 
light; 

And perfumed breath and softened 
breeze 


Blows far from Honolulu’s seas— 

From sundown seas in afterglow— 

When Song sits at the feet of men 

And pipes, low-voiced as mated 
dove, 

For love to measure step with love. 


XV 


And yet, for all the perfumed seas, 
The peace, the silent harmonies, 


And drew, as loving hearts are 


drawn, 

All seas of earth fast following, 

As slow she sailed her sapphire seas. 

Then, as if pausing, pitying, 

She poured down at their very 
feet 

Broad silver ways to walk upon 

Which way they would, or east or 
west, 


Which way they would, or worst or 


best. 
XVII 
Her voice was low, low leaned her 
head, | 
Her two white hands all helpless 
prest 


As if to hush her aching breast, 

As if to bid her aching heart 

To silent bear its bitter part, 

The while she choking, sobbing said: 
“Then here, for all our poppy days, — 
Here, here, the parting of the ways?” 


XVIII 


“Aye, so you willit. Here divide 
The ways, forever and a day. 


You, you—you women lead the way— 
You lead where love hangs crucified, 
Where love is laid prone in the 


dust-— 

Where cunning, cold men mouth 
sweet lies 

And make pure love their mer- 
chandise. 


You heedless lead to hollow lands 

Of bloodless hearts and nerveless 
hands; 

T will not rival such, nay, nay 

Not look on such, save with disgust. " 


XIX 


Her head sank lower still: her hair, 
Her heavy hair, great skeins of gold, 
Hung loosened, heedless, fold on fold, 
As if she cared not, could not care; 
She tried to speak but nothing said; 
She could but press her aching 


heart, 

Step back a pace and shudder, 

start, 

The while she slowly moved her 
head, 


_ As if to say; but nothing said. 
XX 


Her silence lit his soul with rage, 

He strode before her, forth and back, 

A lion strident in his cage, 

- Hard bound within his iron track. 

And then he paused, shook back his 
head, 

And fronting her half savage said: 

“My father, yours, each Argonaut 

An Alexander, to this sea 

Came forth and conquered mightily. 


QA Song of Creation 


489 
XxXI 


“God, what great loves, what lovers 
when 

These westmost states were born of 
men, 

When giants gripped their hands and 
came 

With nerves of steel and souls of 
flame-— 

Could you not wait within yon Gate, 

As their loves dared to wait and 
wait? 

An hundred thousand Didos sat 

Atlantic’s sea-bank nor forgot, 

The while their lovers westmost 
fought, 

But patient sat as Dido, when 

She waved Aineas back again 

And bravely dared to smile thereat. 


XXII 


“Hear me! All Europe, rind to core, 
Is rotting, tumbling, base to top. 
Withhold the gold and silver prop 
Our dauntless fathers hewed of yore 
From yonder seamed Sierras’ core, 
And such a toppling you may hear 
As never fell on mortal ear. 


XXIII 


‘“What’s London town but sorrow’s 
town 

And sins, such as I dare not name? 

Such thousands creeping up and 
down 

Its dreary streets in draggled shame! 

What’s London but a market pen— 


490 


Its hundred thousand lewd, rude 
men? 

What’s London but a town of stone, 

lts thousand thousand women prone? 


XXIV 


“What's Paris but a painted screen, 

A gaudy gauze that scant conceals 

The sensuous nakedness between 

The folds it but the more reveals? 

What’s Paris but a circus, fair, 

To tempt this west world’s open 
purse 

With tawdry trinkets, toys bizarre? 

Ah, would that she were nothing 
worse! 

What’s Paris but a piteous mart 

For west-world mothers crazed to 
trade 

Some silly, simpering, weak maid 

For  thread-bare, _ out-at-elbows 
rank— 

To outworn, weak degenerate 

Whose bank is but the faro bank, 

Whose grave bounds all his real 
estate; 

Whose boast, whose only stock in 
trade, 

A duel and a ruined maid! 


XXV 


“‘What’s 
Rome, 
But traps that take you unaware? 


Berlin, Dresden, sorry 


Behold yon paintings, right at 
home, 

Where nature paints with patient 
care 


@ Song of Creation 


| 
| 
| 


Such splendid pictures, sea and 


shore, 
As all the world should bow before; 
Such pictures hanging to the skies 
Against the walls of Paradise, 
From base to bastion, as should 
wake 
Piave’s painter from the dust; 


Such walls of color crowned in 


snow, 


Such steeps, such deeps, profoundly | 


vast, 
As old-time Art had died to know, 
And knowing, died content, as he 
Who looked from Nimo’s steep to 
see, 


Just once, the Promised Land, and 


passed! 


And yet, for all yon scene, this 


sea, 
You will not bide, Penelope? 


XXVI 


‘Then go, since you so will it, go! 
My way lies yonder, forth and far 
Beneath yon gleaming northmost 
star 
O’er silent lands of trackless snow. 
Lo, there leads duty, hope, as when ~ 
This westmost world demanded men: 
Such men as led the firing line 
When blood ran free as festal wine; 
Such men as when, fast side by side, 
Our fathers fought and fighting 
died. 


XXVII 


“But go—good by! Go see again 
The noisy circus, since you must; 


| 
| 
| 


| 
| 
/ 
| 
/ 
| 


| 


Its painted women that disgust, 

Its nauseating monkey men; 

But mark you, Beautiful, the moth 
That loves that luring, sensuous 
light— 

Nay, hear! I am not wilful, wroth; 
T love with such exceeding might, 
My beautiful, my all, my life, 

T would not, could not take to wife 
My lily tainted by the touch, 

The breath, the very sight of such. 


XXVIII 


‘Shall I see leprous apes lean o’er 
My rose, breathe, touch it if they 
may, 

With breath that is a very stench, 
The while they bow and bend before 
Familiar, as with some weak wench, 


And 


smirk in double-meaning 
French? 
XXIX 
“You shrink back angered? Well, 
adieu; 
| What, not a hand? What, not a 
POC Scr. hs 


My crime is that I love too much, 
My crime is that I love too true, 
Love you, love you, not part of 
you— 

Yea, how much less the rose that 
droops 

In fevered halls where folly stoops! 


XXX 


“Von splendid, triple, midnight star 
Is mine; I follow fast and sure, 


Q@ Song of Creation 


491 


Because it guides so far, so far 

From fevered follies that allure 

Your soul, your splendid, spotless 
soul 

To wreck where siren billows roll— 

Good night! What, turn aside your 
face 

That I might never see again 

Its lifted glory and proud grace, 


As some brave beacon light! Well, 
#hens'. 1.2% 

Ha, ha! Let’s laugh lest one may 
weep— 

How steep your hill seems, steeps how 
steep! 

How deep down seems the misty 
town, 

How lone, how dark, how distant 
down! 

The moon, too, turns her face, her 
light, 

As you have turned your face to- 
night, 

As you have turned your face from 
me, 


My heartless, lost Penelope.”’ 
XXXI 


Then sudden up she tossed her 


head, 
And, face to his face, proudly 
said: 
‘Penelope! To wait and weave! 
Penelope! To wait and wait, 


As waits a dog within his gate; 

To weave and unweave, grieve and 
grieve, 

As some weak harem favorite 

Tight fenced from action, life, and 
light! 


492 
XXXII 

“Why, I should not have sat one 
day 

To that dull-threaded, thudding 
loom, 

With cowards crowding fast for 
room 

To say what brave men dare not 
say! 

Why, I had snatched down from the 
wall 


His second sword that sad, first day 

And set its edge to end it all!— 

Had hewn that loom to splinters, 
yea, 

Had slashed the warp, enmeshed the 
woof 

And called that dog and put to 
proof 

Each silly suitor hounding me, 

Then hoisted sail and bent to sea! 


XXXII 


“Penelope! Penelope! 

Of all fool tales in history 

I think this tale the foolishest! 

Why I, the favored of that land, 

Had such fools come to seek my 
hand, 

Had ranged in line the sexless list 

And frankly answered with my fist!’’ 


XXXIV 


He passed. She paused. Each help- 
less hand 

Fell down, fell heavy down as lead; 

She tried but could not understand. 

At last she raised once more her head, 


Q@ Song of Creation 


Set firm her lips, stepped back a pace, 
Looked long his far star in the face, 
Stood stately, still, as fixed as fate, 


Till all the east flushed sudden ream 


Then as she turned within she said: 
“T cannot, will not, will not wait.” 


He passed, with set lips, lifted hand, 
He passed the northmost golden zone 
Of dreamful, yellow poppy land, 
And silent passed, and so alone! 


Beyond the utmost Oregon, 

Far, far beyond and still beyond, 

Where the crisp, clean waters rattle 

O’er the sparkling, shining shale, 

Where the dusky king, Seattle, 

Lorded mountain, wold and vale, 

When he drave his galleon 

Where scarce a battle-ship would 
dare, 

Far out, far out, or dusk or dawn, 

An hundred leagues of sea to fare 

All up or down or anywhere— 

Whose dusky, tall, breeched oarsmen 
ate 

Red salmon of an hundred weight. 


His huge white cedar ships were 
wrought 

By flint and flame and ballasted 

With slabs of virgin copper brought 

From hidden mountain mines and 
red 


With dash and dot of native gold— 


Their coin, their currency of old: 

Here white Tacoma smiles upon 

Wild, wood-born blackness every- 
where! 

Here hairy monsters prowl and howl 


Their whole night long and nothing 
care, 

White-fanged or mated cheek by 
jowl. 

Here nature is, here man may trace 
First footprints of his brutal race. 


On, on, what wood-hung waters these; 
What baby cities crowd the seas! 
What British ships incessantly 

Cross swords with stately shadow 


trees! 

What white-maned stallions plunge 
and play 

And charge and challenge day by 
day 


These baby cities of the wold 

That sit their shifting sands of 
gold! 

What black firs climb the cloud- 
capped steep 

And bid the bold invaders halt! 
What robust Britons mount and keep 
Their topless walls of Esquimalt! 


On, on, what inland seas of wonder, 
So icy cold, so spicy keen, 
So deep as fate, so clear, so clean! 
You taste a tingling, spicy breath 
What time the avalanche’s thunder 
Grinds balm and balsam woods to 
death 

And in these wood-walled seas of 
wonder 

Swift drowns his dread, earth-shak- 
| ing thunder; 
- While here and there beneath the 
trees 
- White ice tents dash and dot the 
seas. 


Q Song of Creation 


493 
BOOK SECOND 


CANTO I 
I 


His triple star led on and on, 

Led up blue, bastioned Chilkoot Pass 

To clouds, through clouds, above 
white clouds 

That droop with snows like beaded 
strouds— 

Above a world of gleaming glass, 

Where loomed such cities of the skies 

As only prophets look upon, 

As only loving poets see, 

With prophet ken of mystery. 


II 
What lone, white silence, left or 
right, 
What whiteness,something more than 
white! 
Such steel blue whiteness, van or 
rear— 


Such silence as you could but hear 
Above the sparkled, frosted rime, 
As if the steely stars kept time 
And sang their mystic, mighty 
Tune 
. And oh, the icy, eerie moon! 


III 
What temples, towers, tombs of 
white, 
White tombs, white tombstones, left 
and right, 
That pushed the passing night 
aside 


494 @ Song of Creation 


Toward where fallen stars had died— 

Toward white tombs where dead stars 
lay— 

White tombs more white, more bright 
than they; 

White tombs high heaped white 
tombs upon— 

White Ossa piled on Pelion! 


IV 


Pale, steel stars flashed, rose, fell 
again, 

Then paused, leaned low, as pitying, 

And leaning so they ceased to sing, 

The while the moon, with mother 
care, 

Slow rocked her silver rocking-chair. 


V 


Night here, mid-year, is as a span; 

Thor comes, a gold-clad king of war, 

Comes only as the great Thor can. 

Thor storms the battlements and 
Thor, 

Far leaping, clinging crowned upon, 

Throws battle hammer forth and 
back 

Until the walls blaze in his track 

With sparks and it is sudden dawn— 

Dawn, sudden, sparkling, as a gem— 

A jeweled, frost-set diadem 

Of diamond, ruby, radium. 


VI 
Two tallest, ice-tipt peaks take 
flame, 
Take yellow flame, take crimson, 
pink, 


Then, ere you yet have time to 
think, 
Take hues that never yet had name. | 
Then turret, minaret, and tower, 
As if to mark some mystic hour, | 
Or ancient, lost Masonic sign, | 
Take on a darkness like to night, | 
Deep night below the yellow light @} 
That erstwhile seemed some snow: 
white tomb. | 
Then all is set in ghostly gloom, | 
As some dim-lighted, storied shrine— 
As if the stars forget to stay 
At court when comes the kingly day. 


VII 

i 

And now the high-built shafts of | 

brass, 

Gate posts that guard the tomb-set | 
pass, 


Put off their crowns, rich robes, and 
all 
Their sudden, splendid light let fall; 
And tomb and minaret and tower 
Again gleam as that midnight hour. 
While day, as scorning still to wait, 
Drives fiercely through the ice-built 
gate : 
That guards the Arctic’s outer hem 4 
Of white, high-built Jerusalem. | 


VIII 


To see, to guess the great white 
throne, , 

Behold Alaska’s ice-built steeps 

Where everlasting silence keeps 

And white death lives and lords 
alone: 

Go see God’s river born full grown— 


@| Song of Creation 


The gold of this stream it is good: 

Here grows the Ark’s white gopher 
wood— 

A wide, white land, unnamed, un- 
known, 

A land of mystery and moan. 


Ix 


Tall, trim, slim gopher trees incline, 

A leaning, laden, helpless copse, 

And moan and creak and intertwine 

Their laden, twisted, tossing tops, 

And moan all night and moan all day 

With winds that walk these steeps 
alway. 


x 


The melancholy moose looks down, 

A tattered Capuchin in brown, 

A gaunt, ungainly, mateless monk, 

An elephant without his trunk, 

While far, against the gleaming blue, 

High up a rock-topt ridge of snow, 

Where scarce a dream would care to 
go, 

Climb countless blue-clad caribou, 

In endless line till lost to view. 


XI 


The rent ice surges, grinds and groans, 

Then gorges, backs, and climbs the 
shore, 

Then breaks with sudden rage and 

roar 

And plunging, leaping, foams and 
moans 

Swift down the surging, seething 
streaim—— 


495 


Mad hurdles of some monstrous 
dream. 


XIl 


To see God’s river born full grown, 


; To see him burst the womb of earth 


And leap, a giant at his birth, 
Through shoreless whiteness with wild 
shout— 
A shout so sharp, so cold, so dread 
You see, feel, hear, his sheeted dead— 
’'Tis as to know, no longer doubt, 
’Tis as to know the eld Unknown, 
Aye, bow before the great white 
throne. 


XIII 


White-hooded nuns, steeps gleaming 
white, 

Lean o’er his cradle, left and right, 

And weep the while he moans and 
cries 

And rends the earth with agonies; 

High ice-heaved summits where no 
thing 

Has yet set foot or flashed a wing— 

Bare ice-built summits where the 
white 

Wide world is but a sea of white— 

White kneeling nuns that kneel and 
feed 

The groaning ice god in his greed, 

And feed, forever feed, man’s soul. 

The full-grown river bounds right 
on 

From out his birthplace tow’rd the 
Pole; 

He knows no limit, no control: 


496 


He scarce is here till he is gone— 
This sudden, mad, ice-born Yukon. 


XIV 


Beyond white plunging Chilkoot 
Pass, ; 
That trackless Pass of stately tombs, 
Of midday glories, midnight glooms, 
Of morn’s great gate posts, girt in 

brass— 
This courtier, born to nature’s court, 
This comrade, peer of peaks, still 
kept 
Companion with the stars and leapt 
And laughed, the gliding sea of glass 
Beneath his feet in merry sport. 


XV 


Then mute red men, the quick canoe, 

Then o’er the ice-born surge and 
on, 

Till gleaming snows and steeps were 
gone, 

Till wide, deep waters, Swirling, 
blue, 

Received the sudden, swift canoe, 

That leapt and laughed and laughing 
flew. 


XVI 


Then tall, lean trees, girth scarce a 


span, 
With moss-set, moss-hung banks of 
gold 
Most rich in hue, more gorgeous 
than 


Silk carpetings of Turkestan: 
Deep yellow mosses, rich as gold, 


@ Song of Creation 


More gorgeous than the eye of man 
Hath seen save in this wonderland— 
Then flashing, tumbling, headlong 
waves } 
Below white, ice-bound, ice-built 
shores— 
The river swept a stream of white 
Where basalt bluffs made day like 
night. ) 
And then they heard no sound, the 
oars | 
Were idle, still as grassy graves. 


XVII 


And then the mad, tumultuous moon 
Spilt silver seas to plunge upon, 
Possessed the land, a sea of white. 
That white moon rivaled the red 
dawn | 
And slew the very name of night, 
And walked the grave of after-_ 
noon— : 
That vast, vehement, stark mad 
moon! | 


XVITI 


The wide, still waters, sedgy shore, 

A lank, brown wolf, a hungry howl, 

A lean and hungry midday moon; 

And then again the red man’s oar— 

A wide-winged, mute, white Arctic 
owl, 

A black, red-crested, screeching loon — 

That knew not night from middle 
noon, 

Nor gold-robed sun from lean, lank 
moon— 

That crazy, black, red-crested loon. 


Q Song of Creation 


XIX 


Swift narrows now, and now and 
then 

A broken boat with drowning men; 

The wide, still marshes, dank as 
death, 

Where honked the wild goose long 
and loud 

With unabated, angry breath. 

Black swallows twittered in a cloud 

Above the broad mosquito marsh, 

The wild goose honked, forlorn and 
harsh; 

Honked, fluttered, flew in warlike 
mood 

Above her startled, myriad brood, 

The while the melancholy moose, 

Asif to mock the honking goose, 

Forsook his wall, plunged in the 
wave 

And sank, as sinking in a grave, 

Sank to his eyes, his great, sad eyes, 


And watched, in wonder, mute 
surprise, 
Watched broken barge and drowning 
- men 
Drift, swirl, then plunge the gorge 
again. 


XX 


Again that great white Arctic owl, 

As pitying, it perched the bank 

Where swirled a barge and swirling 
sank— 

A drowned man swirling with white 
face 

Low lifting from the swift whirlpool. 

That distant, doleful, hilltop howl— 

That screaming, crimson-crested fool! 


497 


And oh, that eerie, ice-made moon 

That hung the cobalt tent of blue 

And looked straight down, to look 
you through, 

That dead man swirling in his place, 

That honking, honking, huge gray 
goose, 

That solitary, sad-eyed moose, 

That owl, that wolf, that human 
loon, 

And oh, that death’s head, hideous 
moon! 


XXI 


And this the Yukon, night by night, 

The yellow Yukon, day by day; 

A land of death, vast, voiceless, 
white, 

A graveyard locked in ice-set clay, 

A graveyard to the Judgment Day. 


XXII 


On, on, the swirling pool was gone, 

On, on, the boat swept on, swept on, 

That moon was as a thousand moons! 

Two dead men swirled, one swept, 
one sank— 

Two wolves, two owls, two yelling 
loons! 

And now three loons! 
moons? 

How many white owls perch the 
shore? 

Three lank, black wolves along the 
bank 

That watch the drowned men swirl or 
sink! 

Three screeching loons along the 
brink 


How many 


498 
That moon disputing with the dawn 
That dared the yellow, dread 
Yukon! 
XXIII 


And why so like some lorn graveyard 

Where only owls and loons may say 

And life goes by the other way? 

Aye, why so hideous and so hard, 

So deathly hard to look upon? 

Because this cold, wild, dread Yukon, 

Of gold-sown banks, of sea white 
waves, 

Ts but one land, one sea of graves. 


XXIV 


Behold where bones hang either 
bank! 

Great tusks of beasts before the 
flood 

That floated here and floating sank— 

’Mid ice-locked walls and ice-hung 
steep, 

With muck and stone and moss and 
mud, 

Where only death and darkness 
keep! 

Lo, this is death-land! 
heap, 

By ice-strown strand or rock-built 
steep, 

By moss-brown walls, gray, green or 
blue, 

The Yukon cleaves a graveyard 
through! 

Three thousand miles of tusk and 
bone, 

Strown here, strown there, all heed- 
less strown, 


Heap on 


@ Song of Creation 


All strown and sown just as they lay 
That time the fearful deluge passed, 
Safe locked in ices to the last, 
Safe locked, as records laid away, 
To wait, to wait, the Judgment Day,| 


XXV 


He landed, pierced the ice-locked 
earth, | 
He burned it to the very bone— 
Burned and laid bare the deep bed- 
stone 
Placed at the building, at the birth 
Of morn, and here, there, everywhere, 
Such bones of bison, mastodon! 
Such tusky monsters without name! | 
Great ice-bound bones with flesh | 
scarce gone, 
So fresh the wild dogs nightly came | 
To fight about and feast upon. 
And gold along the bedrock lay 
So bounteous below the bones 
Men barely need to turn the stones 
To fill their skins, within the day, 
With rich, red gold and go their way. | 


XXVI 


‘The gold of that place it is good.” 

Lo, here God laid the Paradise! 

Lo, here each witness of the flood, 

Tight jailed in ice eternal, lies 

To wait the bailiff’s chorus call: 

“Come into court, come one, come | 
all!’’ . 

But why so cold, so deathly cold 

The battered beasts, the scattered — 
gold, 

The pleasant trees of Paradise, 

Deep locked in everlasting ice? 


Q@ Song of Creation 


XXVII 


byez! the red man’s simple tale; 

le says that once, o’er hill and vale 

tipe fruits hung ready all the year; 

“hat man knew neither frost nor 
fear, 

‘hat bison wallowed to the eyes 

n grass, that palm trees brushed the 
skies 

Where birds made music all day long. 

[hat then a great chief shaped a 


spear 

Bone-tipt and sharp and long and 
strong, 

And made a deadly moon-shaped 
bow, 


And then a flint-tipt arrow wrought. 

Then cunning, snake-like, creeping 
low, 

As creeps a cruel cat, he sought 

And in sheer wantonness he shot 

A large-eyed, trusting, silly roe. 

And then, exultant, crazed, he slew 

Ten bison, ten tame bear and, too, 

A harmless, long-limbed, shambling 
moose; 

That then the smell of blood let loose 

The passions of all men and all 

Uprose and slew, or great or small— 

Uprose and slew till hot midday 

‘All four-foot creatures in their way; 

Then proud, defiant, every one, 

Shook his red spear-point at the sun. 


XXVIII 


Then God said, through a mist of 
tears, { 
“What would ye, braves made mad 

with blood?”’ 


499 


And then they shook their bone-tipt 
spears 

And cried, ‘‘The sun it is not good! 
Too hot the sun, too long the 
day; 

Break off and throw the end away!” 


XXIX 


Then God, most angered instantly, 
Drew down the day from out the sky 
And brake the day across his knee 
And hurled the fragments hot and 
high 

And far down till they fell upon 

The bronzing waves of dread Yukon, 
Nor spared the red men one dim ray 
Of light to lead them on their way. 


XXX 


And then the red men filled the lands 

With wailing for just one faint ray 

Of light to guide them home that 
they 

Might wash and cleanse their blood- 
red hands. 


XXXI 


But God said, ‘‘ Yonder, far away 
Down yon Yukon, your broken day! 
Go gather it from out the night! 
That fitful, fearful Northern Light, 
Is all that ye shall ever know 

To guide henceforth the way you go. 


XXXII 


““You shall not see my face again, 
But you shall see cold death instead. 


500 


This land hath sinned, this land is 
dead; 

You drenched your beauteous land in 
blood, 

And now behold the wild, white rain 

Shall fall until a drowning flood 

Shall fill all things above, below, 

To wash away the smell of blood, 

And birds shall die and beasts be 
dumb, 

When cold, the cold of death shall 
come 

And weave a piteous shroud of snow, 

In graveyard silence, ever so.”’ 


XXXII 


The red men say that then the rain 
Drowned all the fires of the world, 
Then drowned the fires of the moon; 
That then the sun came not again, 
Save in the middle summer noon, 
When hot, red lances they had hurled 
Are hurled at them like fiery rain, 
Till Yukon rages like a main. 


XXXIV 


With bated breath these skin-clad 


men 
Tell why the big-nosed moose fore- 
knew 
The flood; how, bandy-legged, he 
flew 


Far up high Saint Elias: how 

Down in the slope of his left horn, 

The raven rested, night and morn; 

How, in the harlow of his right, 

The dove-hued moose-bird nestled 
low 


@ Song of Creation 


Until they touched the utmos 


height; 

How dove and raven soon | 
flight 

And winged them forth and fa 
away; 


But how the moose did stay and sta 

His great sad eyes all wet with tears, 

And keep his steeps two thousand 
years. 


XXXV 


He heard the half nude red men say, 
Close huddled to the flame at nigh 7 
How in the hollow of a palm | 
A woman and a water rat, | 
That dreadful, darkened, drowning | 
day, | 
Crept close and nestled in their 
fright; 7 
And how a bear, tame asa lamb, 
Came to them in the tree and sat 
The long, long drift-time to the sea, 
The while the wooing water rat 
Made love to her incessantly; 
How then the bear became a priest 
And married them at last; how then — 
To them was born the shortest, 
least 
Of all the children of all men, 
And yet most cunning and most 
brave 
Of all who dare the bleak north 
wave. 


XXXVI 
What tales of tropic fruit! No tale 


But of some soft, sweet sensuous | 
clime, 


A Song of Creation 


} love and lovely maiden’s trust— 

Some peopled, pleasant, palm-hung 
vale 

Mf everlasting summer time— 

And, then the deadly sin of lust; 

Forbidden fruit, shame and disgust! 


XXXVIT 


And whence the story of it all, 

The palm land, love land and the 
fall? 

Was’t born of ages of desire 

From such sad children of the snows 

For something fairer, better, higher? 

God knows, God knows, God only 
knows. 

But I should say, hand laid to heart 
And head made bare, as I would 
swear, 
These piteous, 

there 
Knew Eden, the expulsion, knew 
The deluge, knew the deluge true! 


sad-faced . children 


XXXVIII 


And what though this be surely so? 
Just this: I know, as all men know, 
As few before this surely knew— 
Just this, and count it great or 
small, 
The best of you or worst of you, 
The Bible, lid to lid, is true! 


CANTO II 
I 


‘The year waxed weary, gouty, old; 
The crisp days dwindled to a span, 


501 


The dying year it fell as cold 

As dead feet of a dying man. 

The hard, long, weary work was 
done, 

The dark, deep pits probed to the 
bone, 

And each had just one tale to tell. 

Ten thousand argonauts as one, 

Agnostic, Christian, infidel, 

All said, despite of creed or class, 

All said as one, “‘As surely as 

The Bible is, the deluge was, 

Whate’er the curse, whate’er the 
cause!”’ 


II 


What merry men these miners were, 

And mighty in their pent-up force! 

They wrought for her, they fought 
for her, 

For her alone, or night or day, 

In tent or camp, their one discourse 

The Love three thousand miles away, 

The Love who waked to watch and 
pray. 


Il 


Yet rude were they and brutal they, 

Their love a blended love and lust, 

Born of this later, loveless day; 

You could but love them for their 
truth, 

Their frankness and their fiery youth, 

And yet turn from them in disgust, 

To loathe, to pity, and mistrust. 


IV 


The Siege of Troy knew scarce such 


men, 


502 


Such hardy, daring men as they, 
The coward had not voyaged then, 
The weak had died upon the way. 


V 


They sang, they sang some like to 
this, 

“T say risk all for one warm kiss ; 

I say ’twere better risk the fall, 

Like Romeo, to venture all 

And boldly climb to deadly bliss.” 


VI 


I like that savage, Sabine way; 
What mighty minstrels came of it! 
Their songs are ringing to this day, 
The bravest ever sung or writ; 
Their loves the love of Juliet, 

Of Portia, Desdemona, yea, 

The old true loves are living yet: 
And we, we love, we weep, we sigh, 
In love with loves that will not die. 


VII 


Then take her, lover, sword in hand, 

Hot-blooded and red-handed, clasp 

Her sudden, stormy, tall and grand, 

And lift her in your iron grasp 

And kiss her, kiss her till she cries 

From keen, sweet, happy, killing 
pain. 

Aye, kiss her till she seeming dies; 

Aye, kiss her till she dies, and then, 

Why kiss her back to life again! 


VIII 


I love all things that truly love, 
I love the low-voiced cooing dove 


A Song of Creation 


In wooing time, he woos so true, 
His soft notes fall so overfull | 
Of love they thrill me through anc 
through. , 
But when the thunder-throated bull 
Upheaves his head and shakes the 
air 
With eloquence and battle’s blare, — 
And roars and tears the earth to 
woo, 
I like his warlike wooing too. 


IX 


Yet best to love that lover is 

Who loves all things beneath the 
sun, 4 

Then finds all fair things in just one, 

And finds all fortune in one kiss. 


Sieeionenai 


Xx 


How wisely born, how more than | 

wise, 
How wisely learned must be that soul | 
Who loves all earth, all Paradise, 
All people, places, pole to pole, — | 
Yet in one kiss includes the whole! 


f 


XI 


Give me a lover ever bold, 

A lover clean, keen, sword in hand, | 

Like to those white-plumed knights of _ 
old 

Whose loves held honor in the land; 

Those men with hot blood in their 
veins 

And hot, swift, iron hand to kill— 

Those women loving well the chains 


Q Song of Creation 


hat bound them fast against their 
will; 
et loved and lived—are living still. 


XII 


‘nough: the bronzed man launched 
his boat, 

faithful dwarf clutched at the oar, 

ind Boreas began to roar 

\s if to break his burly throat. 


XITl 


own, down by basalt palisade, 

Jown, down by bleakest ice-piled 
isle! 

[he mute, dwarf water rat afraid? 

Phe water rat it could but smile 

To hear the cold, wild waters roar 

Against his savage Arctic shore. 


XIV 


But now he listened, gave a shout, 

A startled cry, akin to fear. 

The hand of God had reached swift 
out 

And locked, as in an iron vise, 

The whole white world in blue-black 
ice, 

And daylight scarce seemed living 
more. 

The day, the year, the world, lay 
dead. 

With star-tipt candles foot and 
head; 

Great stars, that burn a whole half 
year, 

Stood forth, five-horned, and near, so 
near! 


593 
XV 


The ghost-white day scarce drew a 
breath, 

The dying day shrank to a span; 

There was no life save that of man 

And woolly dogs—man, dogs, and 
death! 

The sun, a mass of molten gold, 

Surged feebly up, then sudden rolled 

Right back as in a beaten track 

And left the white world to the moon 

And five-horned stars of gleaming 
gold; 

Such stars as sang in silent rune— 

And oh, the cold, such killing cold 

As few have felt and none have told! 


XVI 


And now he knew the last dim hght 

Lay on yon ice-shaft, steep and far, 

Where stood one bold, triumphant 
star, 

And he would dare the gleaming 
height, 

Would see the death-bed of the day, 

Whatever fate might make of it. 

A foolish thing, yet were it fit 

That he who dared to love, to say, 

To live, should look the last of Light 

Full in the face, then go his way 

All silent into lasting night 

As he had left her, on her height? 


XVII 


He climbed, he climbed, he neared at 
last 

The Golden Fleece of flitting Light! 

When sudden as an eagle’s flight— 


504 


An eagle frightened from its nest 

That crowns the topmost, rock-reared 
crest— 

It swooped, it drooped, it, dying, 
passed. 


XVIII 


As when some sunny, poppy day 
The Mariposa scatters gold 

The while he takes his happy flight, 
Like star dust when the day is old, 
So passed his Light and all was night. 


XIX 


Some star-like scattered flecks of gold 
Flashed from the far and fading 
wings 
That keptthe sky, like living things— 
Then oh, the cold, the cruel cold! 
The light, the life of him had past, 
The spirit of the day had fled; 
The lover of God’s first-born, Light, 
Descended, mourning for his dead. 
The last of light, the very last 
He deemed that he should look upon 
Until God’s everlasting dawn 
Beyond this dread half year of night 
Had fled forever from his sight. 


XX 
"Twas death to go, thrice death to 
stay. 
Turn back, go southward, seek the 
sun? 


Yea, better die in search of light, 
Die boldly, face set forth for day, 
As many dauntless men have done, 


A Song of Creation a 


| 
Than wail at fate and house with 
night. ; 


XXI 


Some woolly dogs, a low, dwarf. 


chief— | 
His trained thews stood him now in | 
stead— | 
Broad snow-shoes, skins, a laden | 


That moon was as a brazen thief 
That dares to mock, laugh, and 
carouse! . 

It followed, followed everywhere; | 
He hid his face, that moon was there, | 
Such painful light, such piteous pain! 
It broke into his very brain, | 
As breaks a burglar in a house. | 


sled.— : 
: 


XXII 


Scarce seen, a change came, slow, so 
slow! 

That moon sank slowly out of sight, 

The lower world of gleaming white 

Took on a somber band of woe, 

A wall of umber ’round about, 

So dim at first you could but doubt, 

That change there was, day after 
day— 

Nay, nay, not day, I can but say 

Sleep after sleep, sleep after sleep— 

That band grew darker, deep, more 
deep, 

Until there girt a dense dark wall, 

A low, black wall of ebon hue, 

Oppressive, deathlike as a pall; | 

It walked with you, close compassed 
you, 


A Song of Creation 


While not one thread of light shot 
through. 

Above the black a gird of brown 

Soft blending into amber hue, 

And then from out the cobalt blue 

Great, massive, golden stars swung 
down 

Like tow’rd lights of mountain town. 


XXIII 


At last the moon moved gaunt and 
slow, 

Half veiled her hollow, hungry face 

In amber, kept unsteady pace 

High up her star-set wall of snow, 

Nor scarcely deigned to look below. 


XXIV 


Then far beyond, above the night, 

Above the umber, amber hue, 

Above the lean moon’s blare and 
blight, 

One mighty ice shaft shimmered 
through; 

One gleaming peak, as white, as lone 

As you could think the great white 
throne 

Stood up against the cobalt blue, 

And kept companion with the stars 

Despite dusk walls or umber bars. 


XXV 


“That wall, that hideous prison wall, 
That blackness, umber, amber hue, 
It cumbers you, encircles you, 

It mantles as a hearse’s pall. 
Your eyes lift to the star-pricked 


sky, 


595 


You lift your frosted face, you pray 

That e’en the sickly moon might 
stay 

A time, if but to see you die. 

Yet how it blinds you, body, soul! 

You can no longer keep control. 

Your feebled senses fall astray: 

You cannot think, you dare not say. 


XXVI 


And now such under gleam of light, 

Such blazing, flaming, frightful glare; 

Such sudden, deadly, lightning gleam, 

Some like a monstrous, mad night- 
mare— 

Such hideous light, born of such 
night! 

It burst, with changeful interval, 

From out the ice beneath the wall, 

From out the groaning, surging 


stream 

That breathed, or tried to breathe, in 
vain, 

That struggled, strangled, shrieked 
with pain! 


Twas as if he of Patmos read, 

Sat by with burning pen and said, 

With piteous and prophetic voice, 

“The earth shall pass with rustling 
noise.”’ 


XXVII 


Swift out the ice-crack, fiery red, 

Swift up the umber wall and back, 

Then ’round and ’round, up, down 
and back, 

The sudden lightning sped and sped, 

Until the walls hung burnished red, 

An instant red, then yellow, white, 


506 


With something more than earthly 
light. 


XXVIII 


It blinds your eyes until they burn, 

Until you dare not look or turn, 

But think of him who saw and told 

The story of, the glory of, 

The jasper walls, the streets of gold, 

Where trails God’s unseen garments’ 
hem 

The holy New Jerusalem. 


XXIX 


Then while he trudged he tried to 
think— 

And then another sudden light, 

Or red or yellow, blue or white, 

Burst up from out the very brink 

Of where he passed and, left or right, 

It burnished yet again the walls! 

Then up, straight up against the stars 

That seemed as jostled, rent with 


jars! 

Then silent night. Where next and 
when? : 

Then blank, black interval, and 
then— 


And oh, those blank, dread intervals, 
This writing on the umber walls! 


XXX 


The blazing Borealis passed, 

The umber walls fell down at last 

And left the great cathedral stars,— 

The five-horned stars, blent, burn- 
ished bars 


@ Song of Creation 


Of gold, red, gleaming, blinding 
gold— 
And still the cold, the killing cold! 


XXXI 


The moon resumed all heaven now, 

She shepherded the stars below 

Along her wide, white steeps of snow, 

Nor stooped nor rested, where or how. 

She bared her full white breast, she 
dared | 

The sun e’er show his face again. 

She seemed to know no change, she 
kept 

Carousal constantly, nor slept, 

Nor turned aside a breath, nor 
spared 

The fearful meaning, the mad pain, 

The weary eyes, the poor, dazed brain 

That came at last to feel, to see. 

The dread, dead touch of lunacy. 


XXXII 


How loud thesilence! Oh, how loud! 

How more than beautiful the shroud 

Of dead Light in the moon-mad north 

When great torch-tipping stars stand 
forth 

Above the black, slow-moving pall 

As at some fearful funeral! 


XXXII 


The moon blares as mad trumpets 
blare 

To marshaled warriors long and loud: 

The cobalt blue knows not a cloud, 

But oh, beware that moon, beware 


Q@ Song of Creation 


Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad | 


stare! 
XXXIV 


Bewarewhite silence more than white! 

Beware the five-horned starry rune; 

Beware the groaning gorge below; 

Beware the wide, white world of 
snow, 

Where trees hang white as hooded 
nun— 

No thing not white, not one, not one, 

But most beware that mad white 
moon. 


XXXV 


All day, all day, all night, all night— 

Nay, nay, not yet or night or day. 

Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly 
white 

Made doubly white by that mad moon 

And strange stars jangled out of tune! 


XXXVI 


At last he saw, or seemed to see, 

Above, beyond, another world. 

Far up the ice-hung path there curled 

A red-veined cloud, a canopy 

That topt the fearful ice-built peak 

That seemed to prop the very porch 

Of God’s house; then, as if a torch 

Burned fierce, there flashed a fiery 
streak, 

A flush, a blush on heaven’s cheek! 


XXXVII 


The dogs sat down, men sat the sled 
And watched the flush, the blush of 
red. 


597 


The little woolly dogs they knew, 

Yet scarce knew what they were 
about. 

They thrust their noses up and out, 

They drank the Light, what else to 
do? 

Their little feet, so worn, so true, 

Could scarce keep quiet for delight. 

They knew, they knew, how much 
they knew, 

The mighty breaking up of night! 

Their bright eyes sparkled with such 
joy 

That they at last should see loved 
Light! 

The tandem sudden broke all rule, 

Swung back, each leaping like a boy 

Let loose from some dark, ugly 
school— 

Leaped up and tried to lick his 
hand— 

Stood up as happy children stand. 


XXXVITII 


How tenderly God’s finger set 

His crimson flower on that height 

Above the battered walls of night! 

A little space it flourished yet, 

And then His angel, His first-born, 

Burst through, as on that primal 
morn! 


XXXIX 


His right hand held a sword of flame, 

His left hand javelins of light; 

And swift down, down, right down he 
came! 

His bright wings wide as the wide 
sky, 


508 


And right and left, and hip and thigh, 

He smote the marshaled hosts of 
night 

With all his majesty and might. 


XL 


The scared moon paled and she forgot 

Her pomp and pride and turned to 
fly. 

The ice-heaved palisades, the high 

Heaved peaks that propped God’s 
house, the stars 

That flamed above the prison bars, 

As battle stars with fury fraught, 

Were burned to ruin and were not. 


XLI 


Then glad earth shook her raiment 
Wide, 

And free and far, and stood up tall, 

As some proud woman, satisfied, 

Forgets, and yet remembers all. 

She stood exultant, till her form, 

A queen above some battle storm, 

Blazed with the glory, the delight 

Of battle with the hosts of night. 


And night was broken. Light at last 
Lay on the Yukon. Night had 
passed. 
CANTO III 


I 


The days grew longer, stronger, yet 
The strong man grew then as a child. 
Too hard the tension and too wild 
The terror; he could not forget. 

And now at last when Light was, now 


@ Song of Ereation 


He could not see nor lift his eyes, 
Nor lift a hand in any wise. 

It was as when a race is won 

By some strong favorite athlete, 
Then sinks down dying at your feet. 


II 


The red chief led him on and on 

To his high lodge by gorged Yukon 
And housed him kindly as his own, 
Blind, broken, dazed, and so alone! 


III 


The low bark lodge was desolate, 

And deathly cold by night, by day. 

Poor, hungered children of the snows, 

They heaped the fire as he froze, 

Did all they could, yet what could 
they 

But pity his most piteous fate 

And pitying, silent, watch and wait? 


IV 


His face was ever to the wall 

Or buried in his skins; the light— 

He could not bear the light of day 

Nor bear the heaped-up flame at 
night— 

Not bear one touch of light at all. 

There are no pains, no sharp death 
throes, 

So dread as blindness of the snows. 


V 


He thought of home, he thought of 
her, 


QA Song of Creation 


Thought most of her, and pictured 
how 

She walked in springtime splendor 
where 

Warm sea winds twined her heavy 
hair 

In great Greek braids piled fold on 
fold, 

Or loosely blown, as poppy’s gold. 


VI 


And then he thought of her afar 

Mid follies, and his soul at war 

With self, self will, and iron fate 

Grew as a blackened thing of hate! 

And then he prayed forgiveness, 
prayed 

As one in sin, and sore afraid. 


VII 


And praying so he dreamed, he 
dreamed 

She sat there looking in his face, 

Sat silent by in that dread place, 

Sat silent weeping, so it seemed, 

Sat still, sat weeping silently. 

He saw her tears and yet he knew, 

The blind man knew he could not see, 

Scarce hope to see for years and 


years. 

And then he seemed to hear her 
tears, 

To hear them steal her loose hair 
through 


And gently fall, as falls the dew 

And still, small rain of summer 
morn, 

That makes for harvests, yellow corn. 


599 
VIII 


He raised his hand, he touched her 
hair: 

He did not start, he did not say; 

It seemed that she was surely there; 

He only questioned would she stay. 

How glad he was! Why, now, what 
care 

For hunger, blindness, blinding pain, 

Could he but touch her hair again? 


IX 


He heard her rise, give quick com- 
mand 

To patient, skin-clad, savage men 

To heap the wood, come, go, and then 

Go feed their woolly friends at hand, 

To bring fresh stores, still heap fresh 
flame, 

Then go, then come, as morning came. 


xX 


All seemed so real! He dared not 
stir, 

Lest he might break this dream of her. 

How holy, holy sweet her voice, 

Like benediction o’er the dead! 

So glad he was, so grateful he, 

And thanking God most fervently, 

Forgot his plight, forgot his pain, 

And deep at heart did he rejoice; 

Yet prayed he might not wake again 

To peril, blindness, piteous pain. 


XI 


Then, as he hid his face, she came 
And leaned quite near and took his 
hand. 


510 


’Twas cold, ’twas very cold, ’twas 
thin | 

And bony, black, just skin and bone, 

Just bone and wrinkled mummy-skin. 

She held it out against the flame, 

Then pressed it with her two warm 
hands. 

It seemed as she could feel the sands 

Of life slow sift to shadow land. 

Close on his hurt eyes she laid hand, 

The while she, wearied, nodded 
slept. 

The flame burned low, the wind’s wild 
moan 

Awakened her. Cold as a stone 

His starved form, shrunken to a 
shade, 

Stretched in the darkness, and, dis- 
mayed, 

She put the robes back and she crept 

Close down beside and softly laid 

Her warm, strong form to his and 
slept, 

The while her dusk men vigil kept. 


, 


XIT 


That long, long night, that needed 
rest! 

Then flames at morn; her precious 
store 

Heaped hard by on the earthen floor 

While mute brown men, starved men, 
stood by 

To wait the slightest breath or sigh 

Or sign of wakening request— 

What silence, patience, trust! What 
rest! 

Of all good things, I say the best 

Beneath God’s sun is rest, and—rest. 


@ Song of Creation 


XIII 


She slowly wakened from her sleep 

To find him sleeping, silent, deep! 

What food for all, what feast for all, 

To chief or slave, or great or small, 

Ranged round the flaming, glowing 
heap— 

Such lank, lean flank, such hungry 
zest! 

Such reach of limb, such rest, such 
rest! 


XIV 


Why, he had gone, had gladly gone 

In quest of his eternal Light, 

Beyond all dolours, that dread night, 

Had she not reached her hand and 
drawn, 


Hard drawn him back and held him — 


so, 
Held him so hard he could not go. 
And yet he lingered by the brink, 


As dulled and dazed as you can | 


think— 
Long, long he lingered, helpless lay, 
A babe, a broken pot of clay. 


XV 


She made a broader couch, she sat 
All day beside and held his hand 
Lest he might sudden slip away. 
And she all night beside him lay, 
Lest these last grains of sinking sand 
Might in the still night slip and pass, 
With none at hand to turn the glass. 


| 
| 
| 


; 


TTS CLT 


 @& Song of Creation 


XVI 


And did the red men prate thereat? 

Why, they had laid them down and 
died 

For her, those simple dusky sons 

Of nature, children of the snows, 

Born where the ice-bound river runs, 

Born where the Arctic torrent flows. 

Look you for evil? Look for ill 

Or good, you find just what you will. 


XVII 


He spake no more than babe might 
speak: 

His eyes were as the kitten’s eyes 

That open slowly with surprise 

Then close as if to sleep a week; 

But still he held, as if he knew, 

The warm, strong hand, the healthful 
hand, 

The dauntless, daring hand and true, 

Nor, while he waked, would his un- 
fold, 

But held, as drowning man might 
hold 

Who hopes no more of life or land, 

But, as from habit, clutches hand. 


XVIII 


Once, as she thought he surely slept, 

She slowly drew herself aside, 

He thrust his hand as terrified, 

Caught back her hand, kissed it and 
wept. 

Then she, too, wept, wept tears like 
rain, 

Her first warm, welcome happy tears, 


511 


Drew in her breath, put by her fears 
And knew she had not dared in vain. 


XIX 


Yet day by day, hard on the brink 

He hung with half-averted head, 

As silent, listless, as the dead, 

As sad to see as you can think. 

Their lorn lodge sat the terraced 
steep 

Above the wide, 
stream 

That, like some monster in a dream, 

Cried out in broken, breathless sleep; 

And looking down, night after night, 

She saw leap forth that sword of 
Light. 


wild, groaning 


XX 


She guessed, she knew the flaming 
sword 

That turned which way to watch and 
ward 

And guard the walland ever guard 

The Tree of Life, as it is writ. 

The hand, the hilt, she could not see, 

Nor yet the true, life-giving tree, 

Nor cherubim that cherished it, 

But yet she saw the flaming sword, 

As written in the Book, the Word. 


XXI 


She held his hana, he did not stir, 
And as she nightly sat and sat, 

She silent gazed and guessed thereat. 
His fancies seemed to come to her; 
She could not see the Tree of Life, 
How fair it grew or where it grew, 


512 


But this she knew and surely knew, 

That gleaming sword meant holy 
strife © 

To keep and guard the Tree of Life. 


XXII 


Oh, flaming sword, rest not nor rust! 

The Tree of Life is hewn and torn, 

The Tree of Life is bowed and worn, 

The Tree of Life is in the dust. 

Hew brute man down, hew branch 
and root, 

Till he may spare the Tree of Life, 

The pale, the piteous woman, wife— 

Till he shall learn, as learn he must, 

To lift her fair face from the dust. 


XXIII 


She watched the wabbly moose at 
morn 

Climb steeply up the further steep, 

Huge, solitary and forlorn. 

She saw him climb, turn, look and 
keep 

Scared watch, this wild, ungainly 
beast, 

This mateless, lost thing and the last 

That roamed before and since the 
flood— 

That climbed and climbed the top- 
most hill 

As if he heard the deluge still. 


XXIV 


The sparse, brown children of the 
snow 

Began to stir, as sap is stirred 

In springtime by the song of bird, 


q Song of Creation 


And trudge by, wearily and slow, 


Beneath their load of dappled skins | 


mt 


That weighed them down as weighty 
sins. 


XXV 
And oft they paused, turned and 


looked back 
Along their desolate white track, 


With arched hand raised to shield 


their eyes— 
Looked back as if for something lost 
Or left behind, of precious cost, 
Sad-eyed and silent, mutely wise, 
As just expelled from Paradise. 


XXVI 


How sad their dark, fixed faces 


seemed, 
As if of long-remembered sins! 


They listless moved, as if they ; 


dreamed, 
As if they knew not where to go 
In all their wide, white world of snow. 
She could but think upon the day 


God made them garments from the Ml 


skins 

Of beasts, then turned and bade them 
go, 

Go forth as willed they, to and fro, 


XXVII 


Between the cloud-capt walls of 
snow 

A wide-winged raven, croaking low, 

Passed and repassed, each weary 
day, 


And would not rest, not go, not stay, — 


Q@ Song of Creation 


3ut ever, ever to and fro, 

4s when forth from the ark of old; 
{nd ever as he passed, each day 

et fall one croak, so cold, so cold 

t+ seemed to strike the ice below 

\nd break in fragments hard as fate; 
't fell so cold, so desolate. 


XXVIII 


At last the sun hung hot and high, 

dung where that heartless moon had 
hung. 

A dove-hued moose bird sudden sung 

And had glad answerings hard by; 

The icy steeps began to pour 

Mad tumult down the rock-built 
steep. 

The great Yukon began to roar, 

As if with pain in broken sleep. 

The breaking ice began to groan, 

The-very mountains seemed to moan. 


XXIX 


Then, bursting like a cannon’s boom, 
The great stream broke its icy bands, 
And rushed and ran with outstretched 
: hands 

‘That laid hard hold the willow lands, 
Rent wide the somber, gopher gloom 
And roared for room, for room, for 


room! 


XXX 


The stalwart moose climbed hard 


his steep, 


“Climbed till he wallowed, brisket 


deep, 
33 


513 


In soft’ning, sinking steeps of snow, 
Then raging, turned to look below. 


XXXI 


He tossed, shook high his antlered 
head, 

Blew blast on blast through his huge 
nose, 

Then, wild with savage rage and 
fright, 

He climbed, climbed to the highest 
height, 

As if he felt the flood once more 

Had come to swallow sea and shore. 


XXXII 
The waters sank, the man uprose, 


A boat of skins, his Eskimo, 
Then down from out the world of 


snow 

They passed tow’rd seas of calm 
repose 

Where wide sails waited, warm sea. 
wind, 


For mango isles and tamarind. 


XXXII 


What wonders ward these Arctic 
seas! 

What dread, dumb, midnight days 
are these! 

A wonder world of night and light; 

A land of blackness blent with white, 

A land of water, ices, snow, 

Where ice is emperor and floe 

And berg and pack and jam and drift 

Forever grind and gnaw and lift 


514 

And tide about the bleak North 
Pole— 

Where bull whales bellow, blow and 
blow 


Great rainbows in their lover’s quest 
With all a sunland lover’s zest! 

A land of contradictions and 

A desolated dead man’s land! 

A land of neither life nor soul; 

A land where isles on isles of bone 
And totem towns lie lifeless, lone— 
Their tombstones just a totem pole. 


AXXIV 


Their cedar boat deep ballasted 

With bags of bleak, Koyukuk’s gold, 

An ancient Bedford salt at head, 

Drives through the ice floes, jolly, 
bold ! 

What isles! Saghalien beyond, 

Bleak, blown Saghalien, where bear 

And wild men are as one and share 

Their caves and shaggy coats of hair 

In close affection, warm and fond. 

At least, so ran the jolly tale 

Of him who steered them on and on 

Tow’rd Saghalien from far Yukon— 

This Bedford salt who lassoed whales, 

Or said he did, of largest size, 

And so, according, made his tales 

Of whales to fit in size his lies, 

The while they sailed tow’rd Sag- 
halien. 


XXXV 


What worlds, these wild Aleutian 
Isles! 

What wonder worlds, unnamed, un- 
known! 


@ Song of Creation 


They lift a thousand icy miles 

From Unalaska, bleak and lone 

And bare as icebergs anywhere, 

Save where the white fox, black fox, 
red, 

Starts from his ice and snow-built 
bed, 7 

And like some strange bird flits the 
air. | 

You sometimes see the white sea_ 
bear, 

A mother seal with babe asleep 

Held close to breast in careful keep, — 

And here a thousand sea birds scream } 

And see the wide-winged albatross 

In silence bear his shadow cross 

As still and restful as a dream— 

Naught else is here; here life is not; 

Tis as the land that God forgot. 


XXXVI 


And yet it was not always so; 
This old salt tells a thousand tales . 
Of love and joy, of weal and woe, 
That happened in the long ago 
When reindeer ranged the mossy 
vales ] 
That dot this thousand miles of isles; | 
That here the fond Aleutian maid, 
With naught to fright or make afraid, 
Lived, loved and silent went her way 
As yon swift albatross in grey. 
But totem towns have naught to say | 
Of all her tears and all her smiles. 


XXXVII 


And this, one of so many tales, . 
This Bedford salt in quest of whales! | 
He tells of one once favored isle | 


Far out, a full five hundred mile, 
Where dwelt a Russian giant, knave, 
A pirate, priest, and all in one, 
With many wives, and reindeer white 
As Saint Eliasin the sun; 

Yet every wife was asaslave 

To herd his white deer night by night 
‘And day by day to pluck away 
‘Each hair that was not perfect white. 


XXXVITII 


“And,” says this bearded Bedford 
salt, 

This man of whales and wondrous 

tales 

Of seas of ice and Arctic gales, 

This truthful salt without one fault— 

|“ White reindeer’s milk is yellow gold 

And he who drinks it lives for aye; 

He will not drown, he cannot die, 

Nor hunger, thirst, nor yet grow cold, 

But live and live a thousand lives— 

: Ten thousand deer, two thousand 


wives.” 
XXXIX 
| ““And what the end?”’ He turns his 
quid, 
This ancient, sea-baked, Bed ford 
man— 


“The thing blowed up, you bet it did, 
_ A bloomin’s big volcano, and 

. So bright that you can stand and 
| write 

- Your log most any bloomin’ night, 
Five hundred miles away to-day. 
| 


’ 
| Them deers? They’re now the milky 


” 


way. 
: But now enough of hairy men, 


A Song of Creation 515 


Of monstrous beasts before the flood, 

White Arctic chine, black gopher 
wood, 

Of flower-fed skies, of ice-sown seas; 

Come, let us court love-land again. 

Behold, how good is love, how fair! 

Behold, how fair is love, how good! 

A sense of burning sandalwood 

Is in my nostrils and the air 

Is redolent of cherry trees 

Red, pink, and brown with Nippon 
bees. 


BOOK THIRD 


CANTO I 
I 


Of all fair trees to look upon, 

Of all trees ‘‘ pleasant to the sight,” 

Give me the Poet’s tree of white— 

Pink cherry trees of blest Nippon 

With lovers passing to and fro— 

Pink cherry lanes of Tokio: 

Ten thousand cherry trees and each 

Hung white with Poet’s plaint and 
speech. 


II 


Of all fair lands to look upon, 

To feel, to breathe, at Orient dawn, 

I count this baby land the best, 

Because here all things rest and rest 

And all men love all things most fair 

And beautiful and rich and rare; 

And women are as cherry trees 

With treasures laden, brown with 
bees. 


516 


III 


Of all loved lands to look upon, 

Give me this love land of Nippon, 

Its bright, brave men, its maids at 
prayer, 

Its peace, its carelessness of care. 


IV 


A mobile sea of silver mist 

Sweeps up for morn to mount upon: 

Then yellow, saffron, amethyst— 

Such changeful hues has _ blest 
Nippon! 

See but this sunrise, then forget 

All scenes, all suns, all lands save one, 

Just matin sun and vesper sun; 

This land of inland seas of light; 

This land that hardly recks of night. 


V 


The vesper sun of blest Nippon 

Sinks crimson in the Yellow Sea: 

The purple butterfly is gone, 

The rainbow bird housed in his tree— 

Hushed, as the last loved, trembling 
note 

Still thrills his tuneful Orient throat— 

Hushed, as the harper’s weary hand 

Waits morn to waken and command. 


VI 


Fast homeward bound, brown, busy 
Feet 

In wooden shoon clang up the street: 

But not through all the thousand year 

In Buddha’s temple may you hear 

One step, see hue of sun or sea, 


A Song of Creation 


Though wait you through eternity: 
All is so still, so soft, subdued— 
The very walls are hueless hued. 


VII 


Behold brown, kneeling penitents! 
What perfumed place of silent prayer! 
Burned Senko-ho, sweet frankincense! 
And hear what silence everywhere! 


Pale, pensive priests pass here and 


there 
And silent lisp with bended head 
The Golden Rule on scrolls of gold 
As gentle, ancient Buddhists read 
These precepts sacred unto them, 
And watched the world grow old, so 
old, 
Ere yet the Babe of Bethlehem. 


VIII 


How leaps the altar’s forky flame! 

How dreamful, dense, the sweet 
incense, 

As pale priests burn, in Buddha’s 
name, 

Red-written sins of penitents— 

Mute penitents with bended head 

And unsaid sins writ deep in red. 


IX 


Now slow a priest with staff and scroll, 
Barefoot, as mendicant, and old— 
You sudden start, you lift your head, — 
You hear and yet you do not hear, 

A sound, a song, so sweet, so dear 

It well might waken yonder dead. 

His staff has touched the sacred bowl 
Of copper, silver, shot with gold 


¥ 


ti 


| 


Q@ Song of Creation 


And wrought so magic-like of old 
That all sweet sounds, or east or west, 
Sought this still hollow where to rest. 
Hear, hear the voice of Buddha’s bell, 
Bonsho-no-oto! All is well! 


x 


And you, you, lean, lean low to hear: 

You doubt your ears, you doubt your 
eyes, 

Your hand is lifted to your ear, 

You fear, how cruelly you fear 

The melody may die—it dies— 

Dies as the swan dies, as the sun 


| Dies, bathed in dewy benison. 


XI 


It lives again; you breathe again! 

What cadences that speak, that stir, 

Take form and presence, as of her 

Whom first you loved, ere yet of men. 

It utters essence as a sound; 

As Santalum sends from the ground 

For devotee and worshipper 

Where saints lie buried, balm and 
myrrh. 


XII 


But now so low, so faint, so low 

You lean to hear yet hardly hear. 
‘Again your hand is to your ear, 
Your lips are parted, leaning so, 
And now again you catch your breath 
Such breath as when you lie becalmed 
At sea, and sudden start to feel 

A cooling wave and quickened keel 
And see your tall sail court the shore. 


517 


You hear, you more than hear, you 
feel, 

As when the white wave shimmereth. 

Your love is at your side once more, 

An essence of some song embalmed, 

Long hidden in the house of death— 

You breathe it, as your Lady’s 
breath! 


XIII 


Now low, so low, so soft, so still, 

As when a single leaf is stirred, 

As when some doubtful matin bird 
Dreams russet morning decks his 


hill— 

Then nearer, clearer, lilts each note 

And longer, stronger, swells each 
wave— 

Ten thousand dead have burst the 
grave, 


An angel’s song in every throat! 

The forky flame turns and returns 
To burn and burn red sins away; 
Such incense on the altar burns 

As some may breathe but none may 


say, 
Though cherished to their dying day. 


XIV 


And now the sandaled pilgrims fall 
With faces to the jeweled floor— 

The incense darkens as a pall, 

As clouds that darken more and more. 
You dare not lift your bended head— 
The silence is as if the dead 

Alone had passed the temple door. 
And now the Bonsho notes, the song! 
So stronger now, so strong, so strong! 


518 
XV 


The black smokes of the ashen urn 

Where brown priests burn red sins 
away 

Begin to stir, to start, to turn, 

To seek the huge, bossed copper 
door— 

As evil things that dare not stay. 

The while the rich notes roll and roar 

To drive dread, burned sin out before 

Calm Dia-busta, the adored, 

As cherubim with flaming sword. 


XVI 


And far, so far, such rich notes roll 

That barefoot fishers far at sea 

Fall prone and pray all silently 

For wife and babes that wait the 
strand, 

The tugging net clutched tight in 
hand, 

The while they bow a space to pray; 

For every asking, eager soul 

Knows well the time and patiently 

It lists an hundred Ri away. 


XVII 


The thousand pilgrims girt in straw 
That press Fujame’s holy peak, 
Prone, fasting, penitent and meek, 
Hear notes as from the stars and pray, 
As we who know and keep the Law— 
As we who walk Jerusalem 

With pilgrim step and pallid cheek. 
How earnestly they silent pray 

To keep their Golden Rule alway, 
To do no thing, or night or day, 


@ Song of Creation 


Though tempted by a diadem, 


They would not others do to them! : | 


XVIII 


And wee, brown wives, on high, wild 
steeps 

Of terraced rice or bamboo patch 

Where toil, hard toil incessant, keeps 

Sweet virtue, sweet sleep, and a 
thatch, 

They hear and hold, with closer fold, 

Their bare, brown babes against the 
cold. 

They croon and croon, with soothing 
care, 

To babes meshed in their mighty hair, 

And loving, crooning, breathe a 
prayer. 


XIX 


The great notes pass, pass on and on, 

As light sweeps up the doors of dawn, 

And now the strong notes are no 
more, 

But feebler tones wail out and cry, 


As sad things that have lost their way 


At night and dare not bide the day 
But turn back to the shrine to die, 
And steal in softly through the door 
And gently fade along the floor. 


XX 


The barefoot priest slow fades from 


sight, 
Faint and more faint the last notes 
fall; 
You hear them now, then not at all, 
And now the last note of the night 


@ Song of Creation 


Wails out, as when a lover cries 
At night, and at the altar dies. 


xXXI 
How sweet, how sad, how piteous 
sweet 
‘This last note at the bowed monk’s 
feet 


That dies as dies some saintly light— 
That dies so like the sweet swan 
| dies— 
So loving sad, so tearful sweet, 
This last, lost note—Good night, 
good night. 
Good night to holy Buddha’s bell— 
Bonsho-no-oto! Allis well— 
A mist is rising to the eyes! 


CANTO II 
I 


This water town of Tokio 
Is as a church with priests at prayer, 
With restful silence everywhere, 
Or night or day, or high or low. 
You something hear a turtle dove, 
A locust trilling from his tree 
In chorus with his mated love, 
May see a raven in the air, 
Wide-winged and high, but even he 
Is as a shadow in the stream, 
As dreamful, silent as a dream. 


| | II 
They could but note the silent maids 


That carried, with a mother’s care, 
The silent baby, ofttimes bare 


— 


O19 


As birthtime through their Caran 
shades. 

Ten thousand babies, everywhere, 

But not one wail, or day or night, 

To put the locust’s love to flight, 

Or mar the chorus of the dove. 

And why? Why, they were born of 
love: 

Born soberly, born sanely, clean, 

As Indian babes of old were born 

Ere yet the white man’s face was 
seen, | 

Ere yet the sensuous white man came; 

Born clean as love, of lovelight born 

Some long lost Rocky Mountain morn 

Where snow-topt turrets first took 
flame 

And flashed God’s image in God’s 
name! 


Ill 


Tell me, my flint-scarred pioneer, 
My skin-clad Carson, mountaineer, 
Who met red Sioux, met dusk Modoc, 
Red hand to hand in battle shock 
Where men but met to dare and die, 
Did ever you once see or hear 

One poor brown Indian baby cry? 


IV 


The long, hot march by ashen plain, 
The burning trail by lava bed, 

Babes lashed to back in corded pain 
Until the swollen bare legs bled, 

But on and on their mothers led, 

If but to find a place to die. 

Yet who, of all men that pursued 
This dying race, year after year, 

By burning plain or beetling wood, 


520 


Did ever see, did ever hear, 
One bleeding Indian baby cry? 


V 


The starving mother’s breasts were 
dry, 

There scarce was time to stop and 
drink, 

The swollen legs grew black as ink— 

There was not even time to die. 

And yet, through all this fifty year, 

What hounding man did ever hear 

One piteous Indian baby cry? 


VI 


Nay, they were born as men were 
born 

Far back in Jacob’s Bible morn: 

Were born of love, born lovingly, 

Unlike the fretful child of lust, 

When love gat love and trust gat 
trust— 

And trusting, dared to silent die 

In torture and disdain a tear, 

If mother willed, nor question why. 

Yea, I have seen so many die, 

This cruel, hard, half-hundred year, 

And I have cried, to see, to hear— 

But never heard one baby cry. 


VII 


Shot down in Castle Rocks I lay 
One midnight, lay as one shot dead, 
A lad, and lone, years, years of yore. 
I heard deep Sacramento roar, 

Saw Shasta glitter far away— 

I never saw such moon before 

And yet I could not turn my head, 


: 
, | 
Q Song of Creation 


Nor move my lips to cry or say. | 
Red arrows in both form and face j 


Held form and face tight pinned in 


place 
Against the gnarled, black chaparral, | 
As one fast nailed against a wall | 
With scant half room to wholly fall) 
The hot, thick, gurgling, gasping 
breath, 
The thirst, the thirsting unto death! | 


VIII 


And then a child against my feet 
Crawled feebly and crept close to die; | 
I moaned, ‘‘Oh baby, won’t you cry? | 
’Twould be as music piteous sweet | 
TO hear in this dread place of death | 
Just one lorn cry, just one sweet | 
breath } 

Of life, here ’mid the moonlit dead, _ 
The mingled dead, white men and 
red. | 

IX a 


‘Oh, bleeding, blood-red baby, cry 
Just once before I, choking die! 

And maybe some white man will hear 
In yonder fortressed camp anear 
And bring blest drink for you and I—_ 
Oh, baby, please, please, baby, cry!” 


A crackling in the chaparral 

And then a lion in the clear ; 
From which the dying babe had crept, 
Swift as a yellow sunbeam, leapt 

And stood so tall, so near, so near! 
So cruel near, so sinuous, tall— | 
Some Landseer’s picture on a wall. : 


Q Song of Creation 


XI 


I never saw such length of limb, 

Such arm as God had given him! 

His paws, they swallowed up the 
earth, 

His midnight eyes shot arrows out 
The while his tail whipped swift 
about— . 

His tail was surely twice his girth! 


XII 


His nostrils wide with smell of blood 
Reached out above us where he stood 
And snuffed the dank, death-laden air 
Till half his yellow teeth were bare. 
His yellow length was bare and lank— 
T never saw such hollow flank; 

"Twas as a grave is, as a pall, 

A flabby black flank—scarce at all! 


XII 


He sudden quivered, tail to jaws, 

Crouched low, unsheathed his shining 
claws— 

‘Oh, baby, baby, won’t you cry, 

Just once before we two must die?” 

T felt him spring, clutch up, then leap 

Swift down the rock-built, broken 
steep; 

T heard a crunch of bones, but I— 

I did not hear that baby cry! 


CANTO III 
I 


I would forget—help me forget, 
The while we fondly linger yet 


521 


The flower-field so sweet, so sweet, 
With Buddha at fair Fuji’s feet. 
Fair Fuji-san, throned Queen of air! 
Fair woman pure as maiden’s prayer; 
As pure as prayer to the throne 

Of God, as lone as God, as lone 

As Buddha at her feet in prayer— 
Fair Fuji-san, so more than fair! 


II 


Fair Fuji-san, Kamkura, and 
Reposeful, calm Buddha the blest, 
With folded hands that rest and rest 
On eld Kamkura’s blood-soaked sand. 
Here russet apples hang at hand 

So russet rich that when they fall 
’Tis as if some gold-bounden ball 
Sank in the loamy, warm, wet sand 
Where hana, kusa, carpet earth 
That never knows one day of dearth. 


III 


Kamkura, where Samurai bled, 
Where Buddha sits to rest and rest! 
Was ever spot so beauteous, blest? 
Was ever red rose quite so red? 


IV 


Fair Fuji from her mountain chine 

Above her curtained courts of pine 

Looks down on calm Kamkura’s sea 

So tranquil, dreamful, restfully 

You fold your arms across your breast 

And rest with her, with Buddha rest, 

While silence musks the warm sea 
air— 

Just silence, silence everywhere. 


522 


V 


Here midst this rest, this pure repose, 
This benediction, peace, and prayer, 
That as religion was, and where 
A breath of senko blessed the air, 
The erstwhile children of the snows 
Came silently and sat them down 
Within a Kusa coigne that lay 
Above the buried Bushi town, 
Above the dimpled, beauteous Bay 
Of sun and shadow, gold and brown, 
And Care blew by the other way— 
A breath, a butterfly, a fay. 


VI 


And one was as fair as Fuji, fair, 
True, trusting as some maid at prayer, 
Aye, one as Buddha was, but one 
Was turbulent of blood and was 

An instant of the earth and sun; 

As when the ice-tied torrent thaws 
And sudden leaps from frost and snow 
Headlong and lawless, far below— 
As when the sap flows suddenly 
And warms the wind-tost mango tree. 


VII 


He caught her hand, he pressed her 
side, 

He pressed her close and very close, 

He breathed her as you breathe a rose, 

Nor was in any wise denied. 

Her comely, shapely limbs pushed out 

As elden on her golden shore; 

Her long, strong arms reached round 
about 

And bent along the flowered floor, 

While full length on her back she lay 


Q@ Song of Creation 


Like some wild, beauteous beast at 
| 


play. | 
VIII ; 


He thrust him forward, caught her, 
caught 

Her form as if she were of naught. 

His outstretched face was as a flame, 

His breath was as a furnace is, 

He kissed her mouth with such mad 
kiss 

Her rich, full lips shut tight with 
shame. 


IX 


As one of old who tilled the mould, 

Took triple strength from earth and 
thrust 

His burly foeman to the dust, 

She sprang straight up, and springing 
threw 

Him from her with such voltage he _ 

Knew not how he might, writhing, — 
rise, 

Or dare to meet again those eyes 

That seemed to burn him through and 
through; 

Or daring, how could he undo 

His coward, selfish deed of shame 

Enforced as in religion’s name? 

And she so trustful, so alone! 

’Twas as if some sweet, sacred nun 

Had opened wide her door to one 

Who slew her on her altar stone. 


x 4 
She passed and silent passed and slow. 


What strength, what length of lint 
what eyes! 


@ Song of Creation 


he left him lying low, so low, 

o crested and so surely slain 

fe deemed he never more might rise, 

yr rising, see her face again. 

ind yet, her look was not of hate, 

sut pity, as akin to pain; 

ind when she touched the temple gate 

the paused, turned, beckoned he 
should go, 

30 wash his hands of carnal clay 

ind go alone his selfish way— 

‘orever, ever and a day! 


CANTO IV 
sh 


ow cold she grew, how chilled, how 
changed, 

Since that loathed scene by Nippon’s 
sea! 

No longer flexile, trustful, she 

Held him aloof, hushed and estranged, 

A fallen star, yet still her star, 

And she his heaven, earth, his all, 

To follow, worship, near or far, 

Let good befall or ill befall. 

But he was silent. He had sold 

His birthright, sold for even less 

Than any poor, cheap pottage mess, 

His right to speak forth, warm and 
bold, 

And look her unshamed in the face. 

Mute, penitent, he kept his place, 

As silent as that Nippon saint 

That knew not prayer, praise, or 
plaint. 

II 


Saint Silence seems some maid of 
prayer, 


923 


God’s arm about her when she prays 
And where she prays and everywhere, 
Or storm-strewn or sun-down days. 
What ill to Silence can befall, 

Since Silence knows no ill at all? 


Ill 


Saint Silence seems some twilight sky 
That leans as with her weight of stars 
To rest, to rest, no more to roam, 
But rest and rest eternally. 

She loosens and lets down the bars, 
She brings the kind-eyed cattle home, 
She breathes the fragrant field of hay 
And heaven is not far away. 


IV 


The deeps of soul are still the deeps 
Where stately. Silence ever keeps 
High court with calm Nirvana, where 
No shallows break the noisy shore 

Or beat, with sad, incessant roar, 

The fettered, fevered world of care 
As noisome vultures fret the air. 


V 


The star-sown seas ofthoughtare still, 

As when God’s plowmen plant their 
corn 

Along the mellow grooves at morn 

In patient trust to wait His will. 

The star-sown seas of thought are 
wide, 

But voiceless, noiseless, deep as night; 

Disturb not these, the silent seas 

Are sacred unto souls allied, 

As golden poppies unto bees. 


524 

Here, from the first, rude giants 
wrought, 

Here delved, here scattered stars of 
thought 


To grow, to bloom in years unborn, 
As grows the gold-horned yellow corn. 


VI 


They lay low-bosomed on the bay 

Of Honolulu, soft the breeze 

And soft the dreamful light that lay 
On Honolulu’s Sabbath seas— 

The ghost of sunshine gone away— 
Red roses on the dust of day, 

Pale, pink, red roses in the west 
Where lay in state dead Day at rest. 


VII 


Their dusky boatman set his face 
From out the argent, opal sea 
Tow’rd where his once proud, warlike 
race 
Lay housed in everlasting dust. 
He sang low-voiced, sad, silently, 
In listless chorus with the tide, 
Because his race was not, because 
His sun-born race had dared, defied 
The highest, holiest of His laws 
And so fell stricken and so died— 
Died stricken of dread leprosy 
Begot of lust—prone in the dust— 
Degenerating love to lust. 


VII 


Sweet sandal-wood burned bow and 
stern 

In colored, shapely crates of clay; 

Sweet sandal-wood long laid away, 


@ Song of Creation 


Long caverned with dead battle kings 
Whose dim ghosts rise betimes ang 
burn 
The torch and touch sweet taro, 
strings— ] 
Such giant, stalwart, stately kings! — 


IX 


Sweet sandal-wood, long ages torn 

From cloud-capt steeps where 
thunders slept, 

Then hidden where dead giants epi 

Their sealed Walhalla, | 
morn— 

Deep-hidden, till such sweet Peri 

Betrayed their long-forgotten tomb, | 


xX 


The sea’s perfume and incense lay a 

About, above, lay everywhere; % 

The sea swung incense through the 
air— 

The censer, Honolulu’s Bay. 

And then the song, the soft, low rune, 

As sad, as if dead kings kept tune. 


XI 


| 
7 
The moon hung twilight from each | 

horn, ) 
Soft, silken twilight, soft to touch | 
As baby lips—and over much ) 
Like to the baby breath of morn. a 
Huge, five-horned stars swung left 
and right 


O’er argent, opal, amber night. 


@ Song of Creation 


XII 


That changeful, dreamful, ardent 
light, 

Then Mauna Loa, far afield, 

prose and shook his yellow shield 

elow the battlements of night; 

elow the Southern Cross, o’er seas 

hat sang such silent symphonies! 


XIIT 


ar lava peaks still lit the night, 

ike holy candles foot and head, 

hat dimly burned above the dead, 
bove the dead and buried Light. 
here rose such perfume of the sea, 
uch Sabbath breath, soft, silently, 
s when some burning censer swings, 
s when some surpliced choir sings. 


XIV 


[e scarce had lived save in such fear, 
‘ut now yon mitered tongues of flame 
‘hat tipped the star-lit lava peak 
'rought back some fervor to his 
cheek 
ind made him half forget his shame. 
Ie could but heed, he could but hear 
‘hat call across the walls of night 
‘rom triple mitered tongues of Light, 
‘hat soulful, silent, perfumed night. 
fe said—and yet he said no word; 
Jo word he said, yet all she heard, 
io close their souls lay, in such Light, 
“hat holy Honolulu night. 


XV 


‘Lies yonder Nebo’s mount, my 
Soul ?r— 


075 


The Promised Land beyond, beyond 

The grave of rest, the broken bond, 

Where manly force must lose control, 

Must press the grapes and fill the 
bowl, 

Go round and round, rest, rise up, eat, 

Tread grapes, then wash the wearied 
feet? 


XVI 


“‘T know I have enough of bliss, 

I know full well I should not dare 

To ask a deeper joy than this, 

This scene, your presence, this soft 
airy 

This incense, this deep sense of rest 

Where long-sought, sweet Arcadia 
lies 

Against these gates of Paradise. 


XVII 


‘And yet, hear me, I dare ask more. 
Lone Adam had all Paradise 

And still how poor he was, how poor, 
With all things his beneath the skies! 
Aye, sweet it were to roam or rest, 
To ever rest and ever roam 

As you might reck and reckon best; 
But still there comes a sense of home, 
Of hearthstone, happy babes at play, 
And you and I—not far away. 


XVIII 


“Nay, do not turn aside your face— 
‘Be fruitful ye and multiply’ 

Meant all; it meant the human race, 
And he or she shall surely die 
Despised and pass to nothingness 


526 


Who does not love the little dress, 
The heaven in the mother’s eyes, 
The holy, sacred, sweet surprise 
The time she tells how truly blest, 
With face laid blushing to his breast. 


XIX 


“How flower-like the little frock— 
The daffodil forerunning spring— 
The doll-like shoes, socks, everything, 
And each a secret, secret stored! 
And yet each day the little hoard, 
As careful merchants note their stock, 
Is noted with such happy care 

As only angel mothers share. 


XX 


“At last to hear her rock and rock— 

Behold her bowed Madonna face! 

She lifts her baby from its place, 

Pulls down the crumpled, dampened 
frock, 

And never Cleopatra guessed 

The queenliness, the joy, the pride, 

She knows with baby to her breast— 

His chub fists churning either side! 


XXI 


“‘The bravest breast faith ever bared 

For brother, country, creed or friend, 

However high the aim or end, 

Was that brave breast a baby shared 

With kicking, fat legs half unfrocked 

The while sweet mother rocked and 
rocked.” 


QA Song of Creation 


CANTO V 


I 


As when first blossoms feel first bees, 
As when the squirrel hoists full sail — 
And leaps his world of maple trees 
And quirks his saucy, tossy tail; 
As when Vermont’s tall sugar trees _ 
First feel sweet sap, then don thei? 
leaves | 
In haste—a million Mother Eves; — 
As when strange winds stir strom 
built ships 
Long ice-bound fast in Arctic seas, — 
So she, the strong, full woman now, 
Felt new life thrilling breast and brow 
And tingled to her finger tips. | 
Her limbs pushed out, outreached her 
head 
As if to say—she nothing said. 
But something of the tender light 
That lit her girl face that first night, 
The time she pulling poppies sat 
The sod and saw the golden sheep 


Safe housed within the hollowed deep, 
Was hers; and how she _ blushed 
thereat! Ke 


\ 


Yet blushing so, still silent sat. a 
II | 


She would forget his weakness, yet 
Try as she would, could not forget. | 
He knew her thought. She raised he 
head ; 
And searched his soul, and scarchaii | 
said: | 
“He who would save the world must) 
stand 2 


| 
; 


Tard by the world with steel-mailed 
hand 

And save by smiting hip and thigh. 

‘he world needs truth, tall truth and 

grand, 

{nd keen sword-cuts et thrust to 

: kill. 

The man who climbed the windy hill 

Lo talk, is talking, climbing still, 

And could not help or hurt a fly. 

Che stoutest swimmer and most wise 

swims somewhat with the sweeping 

stream, 

C et leads, leads unseen as a dream. 

The strong fool breasts the flood and 

mm dies, 

(he weak fool turns his back and 

flies.”’ 


Tit 


Je did not answer, could not dare 

Lift his shamed eyes to her fair face, 

3ut looked right, left, looked any- 

_ where, 

And mused, mused mutely out of 
place: 

‘Tf yonder creedists may not teach, 

for all their books, and bravely 


preach 


Chat here, right here, the womb of 
night 

Save us God’s first-born, holy Light, 
Nhy, pity, nor yet blame them quite; 
3ecause they know not, cannot read, 
jave as commanded by some creed. 
Nhat eons they may have to wait 
Nithin their wall, without the gate, 
Nor once dare lift their eyes to look 
3eyond their blinding creed and book, 


Q Song of Creation 


927 


We know not, but we surely know 

Yon lava-lifted, star-tipt height 

Is bannered still by that first Light. 

We know this phosphorescent glow, 

At every dip of dripping oar, 

Is but lost bits of Light below, 

Where moves God’s spirit as of yore. 

Aye, here, right here, from out the 
night, 

God spake and said: ‘‘Let there be 
light!’’ 


IV 


‘‘And dare ask doubting, creed-made 
men 
Why we so surely know and how? 
Why here ‘the waters,’ now as then? 
Why here ‘the waters,’ then as now? 
We know because we read, yet read 
So little that we much must heed. 
We read: ‘God’s spirit moved upon 
The waters’ ere that burst of dawn. 
What waters? Why, ‘The Waters,’ 
these, 
These soundless, silent, sundown seas. 


V 


‘“The morning of the world was here, 

’Twas here ‘He made dry land 
appear,’ 

Here ‘Darkness lay upon the deep.’ 

What deep? This deep, the deepest 
deep 

That ever rolled beneath the sun 

When night and day were then as one 

And dreamless day lay fast asleep, 

Rocked in this cradle of the deep.”’ 


528 


VI 


She would not, could not be denied 

Her thought, her theme but turned 
once more, 

As turns the all-devouring tide 

Against a stubborn unclean shore, 

With lifted face and soul aflame, 

And spake as speaking in God’s 
name— 

With face raised to the living God: 

“Hear me! How pitiful the plea 

Of men who plead their temperance, 

Of men who know not one first sense 

Of self-control, yet, fire-shod, 

Storm forth and rage intemperately 

At sins that are but as a breath, 

Compared with their low lives of 
death! 


VII 

‘‘And oh, for prophet’s tongue or pen 
To scourge, not only, and accuse 
The childless mother, but such men 
As know their loves but to abuse! 
Give me the brave, child-loving Jew, 
The full-sexed Jew of either sex, 
Who loves, brings forth and nothing 

recks 
Of care or cost, as Christians do— 
Dulled souls who will not hear or see 
How Christ once raised his lowly head 
And, all rebuking, gently said, 
The while he took them tenderly, 
‘Let little ones come unto me.’ 


VIII 


“The true Jew lover keeps the Way. 
For clean, serene, and contrite heart 


@ Song of Creation 


~ 


The bride and bridegroom kneel ap: 
Before the bridal bed and pray. 


i Ki 
IX i 


‘‘Behold how great the bride’s estate! 

Behold how holy, pure the thought 

That high Jehovah welcomes her 

In partnership, to coin, create 

The fairest form He yet has wrought 

Since Adam’s clay knew breath and 
stir: ) 

To glory in her daughters, sons; 


To be God’s tabernacle, tent, 


The keeper of the covenant, 
The mother of His little ones! 


xXx 


‘“‘Go forth among this homeless race, 
This landless race that knows no place 
Or name or nation quite its own, 
And see their happy babes at play, 
Or palace, Ghetto, rich or poor, _ 
As thick as birds about the door 

At morn, some sunny Vermont May, 
Then think of Christ and these alone. 
Yet ye deride, ye jeer, ye jibe, i 
To see their plenteous babes; ye say 
‘Behold the Jew and all his tribe!’ 


XI 


‘“‘Yet Solomon upon his throne 

Was not more kingly crowned than 
they is 

These Jews, these jeered Jews of to- 
day— 4 

More surely born to lord, to lead, 

To sow the land with Abram’s seed; 


4 
yy 
' 


Q@ Song of Creation 


3ecause their babes are healthful born, 
\nd welcomed as the welcome morn. 


XIT 


‘Hear me this prophecy and heed! 

ixcept we cleanse us, kirk and creed, 

xcept we wash us, word and deed, 

[he Jew shall rule us, reign the Jew. 

\nd just because the Jew is true, 

is true to nature, true to truth, 

[s clean, is chaste, as trustful Ruth 

Who stood amid the alien corn 

In tears that far, dim, doubtful 
morn— 

Who bore us David, Solomon— 

The Babe, that far, first Christmas 
dawn. 


XIII 


“Vou shrink, are angered at my 
| speech? 

You dare avert your doubtful face 
Because I name this chaste, strange 
race? 

So be it then; there lies the beach, 
And up the beach the ways divide. 

I would not leave the truth untold 
To win the whole world to my side, 
Nor would I spare your selfish pride, 
Your carnal coarseness, lustful lie, 
For that would be to let you die. 
Come! yonder lifts the clear, white 
Light 

For seamen, souls sea-tost at night. 


XIV 


The pepsin’s plume, acacia’s bloom 


| 

| 

4 see the spiked Agave’s plume, 
34 


529 


Far up beyond tall cocoa trees, 

Tall tamarind and mango brown, 

That gird the pretty, peaceful town. 

That lane leads up, the church looks 
down— 

There lie the ways, now which of 
these? 

Bear with me, I must dare be true. 

The nation, aye, the Christian race, 

Now fronts its stern Sphynx, face to 
face, 

And I must say, say here to you, 

Whate’er the cost of love, of fame, 

The Christian is a thing of shame— 

Must say because you prove it true, 

The better Christian is the Jew. 


XV 


“T know you scorn the narrow deeds 

Of men who make their god of 
creeds— 

Yon men as narrow as the miles 

That bank their rare, sweet flower-fed 


isles, 

But come, my Lost Star, come with 
me 

To yon fond church, high-built and 
fair, 


For God is there, as everywhere, 
Or Arctic snow or argent sea.” 


XVI 


He looked far up the mango lane 

Below the wide-boughed banyan tree; 

He looked to her, then looked again, 

As one who tries yet could not see 

But one steep, narrow, upward way: 

“Vou said two ways, here seems but 
one, 


930 


Or set of moon or rise of sun, 

But one way to the perfect day, 

And I will go. And you must stay?” 
She looked far up the steep of stone 
And said: ‘Aye, go, but not alone.” 


XVII 


The boat’s prow pushed the cocoa 
shore, 

The man spake not, but, leaning o’er, 

Strong-armed, he drew her to his side 

And was not anywise denied. 

He pointed to the failing fire, 

That still tipt lava peak and spire, 

While stars pinned round the robe of 
night; 

’Twas here God said, ‘‘Let there be 
Light!”’ 


XVITI 


A little church, a lava wall, 

A soft light looking gently down, 
The Light of Christ, the second light, 
Where two as one passed up the town. 
She gave her hand, she gave her all, 
And said, as such brave women might, 
With ample right, in hallowed cause: 
““As it in the beginning was, 

So let the man-child be full born 

Of Love, of Light, the Light of Morn!”’ 


BOOK FOUR 


CANTO I 
I 


And which of all Hawaii’s isles 
Of sandalwood and singing wilds 


Q Song of Creation 


Received and housed this maiden 


rare— 
This bravest, best, since Eve’s des- 
pair? 
It matters not; enough to know 
Night-blooming trumpets ever blow 
Love’s tuneful banner to the breeze 
In chorus with the ardent seas; 
That Juno walks her mountain wall 
In peacock plumes the whole year 
through. 
You hear her gaudy lover call 
From dawn till dusk, then see them 
fall 
From out the clouds far, far below, 


And droop and drift slow to and fro— 


Dusk rainbows blending with the dew. 


IT 


And had he won her? He had wed, 


But now it was that he must woo, 


Must keep alone his widowed bed 
Or sit and woo the whole night 
through. 


He plead. He could not touch her 


hand; 


Her eyes held anger and command — 


And memories of a trustful time 


He would have made her muck and 


slime. 


III 


He plead his perfect life, still plead; 


But spurning him she mocking said: _ 
“You would have trailed me in the 


dust 
In very drunkenness of lust — 
And now you dare to meekly plead 


Your love of Light, your studious 
youth, 

Your strenuous toil, your quest of 

truth, 

‘Your perfect life! Indeed! Indeed! 


IV 


: “Behold the pale, wan, outworn wife 
Of him who pleads his perfect life! 
‘Her step is slow, she waits for death; 
Hear, hear her wan babe’s hollow cry! 
‘He scarce can cry above a breath. 
Poor babe! begotten but to die, 

Or, harder fate, live feebly on, 

~The shame of mother, curse of state— 
‘Half-witted, worthless, jest of fate. 


V 


*¢ Behold God’s image, fashioned tall 
As heaven, stooping down to crawl 
Upon his belly as a snake, 

Ere yet his sense is well awake, 

Ere yet his force has come, ere yet 
The child-wife knows but to regret. 
_ And lo! the greatest is the least; 

_ For man lies lower than the beast. 


VI 


_ “Such pity that sweet love should lie 
Prone, strangled in its bed of shame, 


‘And no man dare to publish why! 


Such pity that in slain Love’s name 
The weak bring forth the weaker, 


The leper, idiot, anything 
That lawless passion can beget! 
Sweet pity, pity for them all— 


ae 


Q@ Song of Creation 


531 


The child that cries, child-wife that 
dies, 

The weakling that may linger yet 

A feeble day to feebly fall— 

As food for sword or cannon ball, 

For prison wall or charity 

Or fruit of gruesome gallows tree! 


VII 


“But pity most poor man, blind man, 

Whose passions stoop him to a span. 

Why, man, each well-born man was 
born 

To dwell in everlasting morn, 

To top the mountain as a tower, 

A thousand years of pride and power; 

To face the four winds with the face 

Of youth until full length he lies— 

Still God-like, even as he dies. 


VIII 


“Could I but teach lorn man to live, 

But teach low man to truly love, 

Could I but teach blind man to see, 

How gladly he would turn to me 

And give great thanks, and ever give 

Glad heed, as to some soft-voiced 
dove. 


IX 


“The burning cities of the plain, 

The high-built harlot, Babylon, 

The bannered mur’ls of Rome un 
done, 

That rose again and fell again 

To ashes and to heaps of dust, 

All died because man lived in vain, 

Because man sold his soul to lust. 


932 
x 


“And count what crimes have come 
of it! 

I say all sins, or said or writ, 

Lie gathered here in this dark pit 

Of man’s licentious, mad desire, 

Where woman’s form is ruthless 
thrown, 

As on some sacrificial stone, 

And burned as in a living fire, 

To leave but ashes, rue, and ire. 


XI 


““Aye, even crimes as yet unnamed 
Are born of man’s degrading lust. 
The wildest beast man ever tamed, 
Or ever yet has come to know— 
The vilest beast would feel disgust 
Could it but know how low, how low 
God’s image sinks in muck and slime, 
In crimes so deeper than all crime, 
In slime that hath not yet a name, 
And yet man knows no whit of shame! 


XII 


“Poor, weak, mad man, so halt, so 
blind! 

Poor, weak, mad man that must 
carouse 

And prostitute what he should house 

And husband for his coming kind! 

Behold the dumb beasts at glad morn, 

Clean beasts that hold them well in 
hand! 

How nobler thus to lord the land, 

How nobler thus to love your race, 

To house its health and strength and 
grace, 


en 


@ Song of Ereation 


Than rob the races yet unborn 
And build new Babylon to scorn! 


XITI 


“I say that each man has a right, 
The right the beast has to be born 


Full-flowered, beauteous, free and 


fair’ 


As wide-winged bird that rides the 


air; 
Not as a babe that cries all night, 


Cries, cries in darkness for such Light 


As man should give it at its birth. 
I say that poor babe has a right, 


The right, at least, of each wild 


beast— 
Aye, red babe, black, white, west or 
east, 


To rise at birth and lord the earth, 

Strong-limbed, long-limbed, robust 
and free 

As supple beast or towering tree. 


XIV 


‘‘God’s pity for the breasts that bear 3 : 


A little babe, then banish it 

To stranger hands, to alien care, 

To live or die as chance sees fit. 

Poor, helpless hands, reached any- 
where, 

As God gave them to reach and reach, 

With only helplessness in each! 

Poor little hands, pushed here, pushed 
there, 


And allnight long for mother’s breast: _ 


Poor, restless hands that will not rest 


And gather strength to reach out 


strong 


Q Song of Creation 


To mother in the rosy morn! 

Nay, nay, they gather scorn for scorn 

And hate for hate the lorn night 
long— 

Poor, dying babe! to reach about 

In blackness, as a thing cast out! 


XV 


“God’s pity for the thing of lust 
Who bears a frail babe to be thrust 
Forth from her arms to alien thrall, 
As shutting out the light of day, 

As shutting off God’s very breath! 
‘But thrice God’s pity, let us pray, 
For her who bears no babe at all, 
‘But, grinning, leads the dance of 

death. 

That sexless, steel-braced breast of 

bone 

‘Is like to some assassin cell, 

A whited sepulchre of stone, 

A graveyard at the gates of hell, 

A mart where motherhood is sold, 

A house of murders manifold!’ 


CANTO II 
I 
: He heard; he could but bow his head 


: In silence, penitence, and shame, 
Confess the truth of all she said 

Of crimes committed in Love’s name, 
Nor beg the sacred seal of red 

To marriage bond and marriage bed. 


: 


II 


And that was all, aye, that was all 


years. 


For days, for days that seemed as 


933 


He still must woo, put by her fears, 

Make her his friend, let what befall; 
Bide her sweet will and, loving, bide 
Meek dalliance with his maiden bride. 


III 


One night in May, such soulful night 
Of cherry blossoms, birds, such birds 
As burst with song, that sing outright 
Because so glad they cannot keep 
Their song, but sing out in their sleep! 
Such noisy night, a cricket’s night, 
A night of Katydids, of dogs 
That bayed and bayed the vast full 
moon 
In chorus with glad, tuneful frogs— 
With May’s head in the lap of June. 
How hot, how sultry hot the room! 
Their garden tree in perfect bloom 
Gave out fair Nippon’s full perfume— 
The night grew warm and very warm, 
And warm her warm, full-bosomed 
form! 


IV 


How vital, virile, strong with life, 

The world without, the maiden wife! 

How wondrous fair the world, how 
fair 

The maid meshed in her mighty hair! 

The man uprose, caught close a skin, 

A lion’s skin, threw this about 

His great, Herculean, pent-up form, 

Thrust feet into his slippered shoes, 

Then, with a lion’s force and frown 

He strode the wide room up and 
down, 

The skin’s claws flapping at his thews. 

He turned, he caught her suddenly 


534 


And instant wrapped her close within; 


Then down the stairs and back and 
out 

Beneath the blossomed Nippon tree— 

Against the tree he pressed her form, 

He was so warm, so very warm— 

He held her close as close could be 

Against the blossomed cherry tree. 


V 


He held with all his might and main— 

Held her so hard he shook the tree, 

Because he trembled mightily 

And shook in his hard, happy pain— 

Because he quivered as a pine 

When tropic storm sweeps up the line, 

As when some swift horse, harnessed 
low, 

Frets hard and bites the bit to go. 

She laughed such low, sweet laugh, 
and said, 

The while she raised her pretty head, 

“Please, please, be gentle good to me, 

And please don’t hurt the cherry 
tree.” 


VI 


The warm land lay as in a swoon, 

Full length, the happy lap of June— 

A fair bride fainting with delight 

And fond forgetfulness with night. 

How warm the world was and how 
wise 

The world is in its love of life, 

Its hate of harshness, hate of strife, 

Its love of Eden, peace that lies 

In love-set, leaf-sown Paradise! 


Q Song of Ereation 


VII 


How generous, how good is night 


To give its length to man’s delight— | 
To give its strength from dusk till _ 


morn, 
To push the planted yellow corn! 
How warm this garden was, how 
warm 
With life, with love in any form! 
Two lowly crickets, clad in black, 


Came shyly forth, shrank sudden — 


back— 

Then chirped in chorus, side by side; 
And oh, their narrow world was wide 
As oceans, light their hearts as air, 
And oh, their little world was fair, 
And oh, their little world was warm 
Because each had a lover there, 
Because they loved and didn’t care, 


VIII 


How languid all things with delight, 
With sensuous longings, sweet desire 
That burned as with immortal fire, 
Immortal love that burns to live 
And, lives to burn, to take, to give, 
Create, bring forth, and loving share 
With God the fruitage, flesh or 
flower— 
Just loving, loving, bud or bower, 
Or bee or birdling, small or great, 
Just loving, loving to create, 


With just one caution, just one care— 


That all creation shall be fair. 
IX 


The very garden wall was warm 


With gorgeous sunshine gone away; _ 


Q Song of Ereation 


Clung amorous, tiptoed to kiss, 
With eager lips, the ardent clay 
That held her to its breast of bliss. 


Xx 


Blown cherry blossoms basking lay, 
A perfect pathway of perfume; 

The tiger lily scarce had room 

For roses bending in a storm 

Of laden sweetness more than sweet. 
The moon leaned o’er the garden wall, 
Then, smiling, tiptoed up her way, 
The while she let one full beam fall, 
Love-laden in the sensuous heat, 

So sweet, so warm, so still withal, 


Each vine, with eager, reaching arm, 
| 
| Love heard pink cherry blossoms fall. 


x1 
| 


A Katydid laid his green thigh 

Against another leaf-green form 

And so began to sing and sigh, 

As if it were his time to die 

From stress and strain of passion’s 
storm— 

He, too, was warm and very warm. 


XII 


_ A tasseled hammock, silken red, 
| Swung, hung hard by, and foot and 
ie head, 
A blossom-laden cherry tree. 
This famed tree of the Japanese, 
- Whatever other trees may be, 
Is held most sacred of all trees: 
Not quite because of its perfume, 
Not all because of rich pink bloom, 


535 


But much because its blossomed 
boughs 

Not only list to lover’s vows, 

But true to lovers, ever true, 

Refuse to let one moonbeam through. 


XII 


Here, close beneath this Nippon tree, 

The sweetest tree this side Cathay, 

The lover’s tree of mystery, 

Where not a thread of moonlight lay, 

While waves of moonlight laughed 
and played 

At hide and seek the other way, 

He threw her, full length, from his 


arm; 

Full length, then raised her drooping 
head, 

Threw back the skin and, blushing 
red, 


He sought to say—He nothing said! 

He nothing did but blush and blush 

And feel his hot blood rush and rush— 

The very hammock’s fringe was warm 

The while he leaned low from his 
place 

And felt her warm breath in his face. 


XIV 


Then, all abashed, he trembled so 

He clutched the hammock hard and 
fast, 

He held so hard it came, at last, 

To swing, to swing fast to and fro. 

Such awkwardness! He clutched, 
let go, 

Then clutched so hard he shook each 
tree 

Till perfumed silence came to see— 


536 


Till fragrance fell upon her hair, 

Such hair, a storm of pink and snow. 

How fair, how fair, how sensuous fair, 

Half hidden in a pink snow-storm; 

And yet how warm, how more than 
warm! 


XV 


How shamed he was! His great heart 
beat 
As beats some signal for retreat. 
This stupid, bravest of brave men, 
Confused, dismayed, hung down his 
head, 
Then turned and helplessly had fled, 
Had she not reached a timid hand 
And, half as pleading, half command 
And half-way laughing, shyly said, 
From out her snood of snow and rain, 
“Please shake the Nippon trees 
again!”’ 


XVI 


He shook the trees; a fragrant shower 
On laughing face and loosened hair— 
A flash of perfume and of flower— 

O, she was fair and very fair! 


Then with a sudden strength he 


plucked 
His red-ripe cherry from the tree, 
Wound ’round the skin and loosely 
tucked 
The folds about her modestly, 
Then on and up with giant stride 
He bore his blushing maiden bride, 
So cherry ripe, so cherry red, 
And laid her in her bridal bed— 
Laid perfumed bride, laid flesh and 
flower, 


Q Song of Creation 


Half drowning from the fragrant 
shower. 

What snows strewn in her ample hair 

What low, light laughter everywhere 

Or cherry tree, or step or stair! 

Just low, soft laughter, cherry bloom, 

Just love and love’s unnamec 
perfume. 


XVII 


He tossed the lion’s skin aside, 
With folded arms leaned o’er his 
bride, 
Turned low the light, then stood full 
length, 
Then strode in all his supple strength 
The room a time, tossed back his hair, 
Then to his bride, swift bent to her, 
And kneeled, as lowliest worshiper. 


XVIII 


And then he threw him by her ’side, 

His long, strong limbs thrown out full 
length, 

His two fists full of housed-up 
strength. 

What pride, what manly, kingly pride 

That he had conquered, bravely slain 

His baser self, was self again! 


XIX 


He held a hand exceeding small, 

He breathed her perfume, threw her 
hair 

Across her breast with such sweet 
care 

He scarce did touch her form at all. 

Again he rose, strode to and fro, 


@ Song of Creation 


‘Came back and turned the light 
quite low. 


XX 


He bowed his face close to her feet; 
Now he would rise, then would not 
rise; 
He bent, blushed to his very eyes, 
Then sudden pushed aside the sheet 
And kissed her pink and pearly toes. 
Their perfume was the perfect rose 
When perfect summer, passion, heat, 
Points both hands of the clock 
straight up, 
As when we lift and drain the cup, 
As when we lift two hands and pray 
When we have lived our bravest day, 
The horologue of life may stop 
With both hands pointing to the top. 


XXI 


Then suddenly, in strength and pride, 
Full length he threw him at her side 
And caught again her timid hand, 
A bird that had escaped his snare. 
He caught it hard, he held it there, 
He begged her pardon, begged and 
prayed 
She would forgive him, then he laid 
His face to her face and the land 
Was like a fairyland. They lay 
As children well outworn at play. 


XXII 


| As children bounding from their bed, 
So rested, radiant, satisfied 

With self and selfishness denied, 
Life seemed some merry roundelay. 


aay 


They laughed with early morn, they 
led, 

So full of soul, of strength were they, 

The laughing dance of love all day. 


XXIII 


All day! A month of days, and each 
A song, a sermon, but to teach, 

A holy book to teach the truth 

Of endless, laughing, joyous youth. 
He stood so tall, he stood so strong— 
As one who holds the keys yet keeps 
His treasure housed in shining heaps 
Until all life was as a song. 


XXIV 


At last, one warmest morning, she 

Would scarce let go, said o’er and o’er, 

Held close his hand, held hard the 
door, 

‘‘Good-by! Come early back to me!’’ 

And then, close up beside, as one 

Might eager seek some stout oak tree 


When storm is sudden threatened, 


she 
Put up her pretty, pouting mouth, 
Half closed her laughing, saucy eyes— 
Such lips, such roses from the south, 
The warm, south side of Paradise!— 


XXV 


“‘Good-by! Come early back to me!’’ 

Why, he heard nothing else all day, 

Saw nothing else, knew naught but 
this, 

Their fond, fond, first full-flowered 
kiss, 

Wherein she led the rosy way, 


538 


As is her right, as it should be. 

He looked his watch hard in its face 

A hundred times, he blushed, he 
smiled, 

Did leave his friends and lightly pace 

The street, half laughing, as a child. 

A million kisses! He’d had one— 

Scant one, his joy had just begun! 


XXVI 


Come early? He was at the gate 
And through the door ere yet the day 
Had kneeled down in the west to pray 
Its vesper prayer, all brimming o’er 
And blushing that he could not wait 
To kiss her just once more, once more, 
Take breath, then kiss her o’er and 
o’er. 


XXVII 


By some sweet chance he found her 
there, 
Close fenced against the winding 
stair, 
With no escape, behind, before. 
She put her lips up as to plead 
She might be spared a little space; 
But there was mischief in her face, 
A world of frolic and of fun, 
And he could run as he could read, 
Aye, he could read as he could run. 
And then she pushed her full lips out: 
‘You are so strong, you hold go fast! 
You know I tried to guard the door.” 
And then she frowned, began to pout 
And sighed, “ Dear, dear, 'tis not well 
done!’’ 
And then he caught her close, and 
then 


@ Song of Creation 


He kissed her once, twice, thrice) 


| 


again. | 
XXVIII 


Then days and many days of this— | 
Ah! man, make merry and carouse 
Upon your way, within your house, { 
Hold right there in your manly hand, : 
Your happy maid who waits your 
kiss; 
Carouse on kisses and carouse : 
In soul, the livelong, thronging day — 
When duty tears you well away, 
To know what waits you at the gate, © 
And waiting loves and loves to wait. 


XXIX 


¢ . 
And how to kiss? A thousand ways, — 
And each way new and each way true, | 
And each way true and each way new _ 
Each day for thrice ten thousand _ 

days. ; 


XXX 


How loyal he who loves, how grand! | 
He does not tell her overmuch, 

He does not sigh or seek to touch | 
Her garments’ hem or lily hand; 

She is his soul, his life, his light, 

His saint by day, his shrine by night. 


XXXI 


True love leads home his maiden bride _ 
Low-voiced and tender, soft and true: | 
He leans to her, to woo, to woo, 

As if she still turned and denied— 


Q@ Song of Creation 


No selfish touch, no sated kiss 
To kill and dig the grave of bliss. 


XXXII 


True love will hold his maiden bride 
As nobles hold inheritance; 

He will not part with one small pence 
Of her fair strength and stately pride, 
But wait serenely at her side, 
Supremely proud, full satisfied. 


XXXIII 


Why, what a glorious thing to view! 

Each morn a maiden at your side, 

The one fair woman, maid and bride, 

With all her sweetness waiting you! 

How wise the miser, more than wise, 

Who knows to count and keep such 
prize! 


XXXIV 


How glad the coming home of him 
Who knows a maiden waits and waits, 
All pulsing, still, within his gates, 
To kiss his goblet’s golden brim; 
How joyous still to woo and woo, 

To read the old new story through! 


XXXV 


' Ah me, behold what heritage! 

What light by which to walk, to live 
This age when lights resplendent 
burn, 

_ This glorious, shining, new-born age, 
When love can bravely give and give 
And get thrice tenfold in return, 

If man will only love and learn! 


939 
XXXVI 


And now soft colors through the house 

Began to surely bud and bloom; 

The wise, the fair, far-seeing spouse 

Began to deck the bridal room; 

Began to build, as builds a bird, 

When first footfalls of spring are 
heard. 


XXXVII 


Some warm-toned colors on the wall, 

Then gorgeous, grass-like carpetings 

Strown, sown with lily, pink and all 

That nature in sweet springtime 
brings; 

Then curtains from the Orient, 

The silken couch, soft as a kiss, 

The music born of love and blent 

But rarely with such loves as this; 

Mute music, where not hand of man 

Or foot of man is seen or heard, 

Such soft, sweet sound as only can 

In happy blossom time be heard— 

Be heard from happy, nested bird. 


XXXVIII 


And now full twelve o’clock, the noon- 

Of faithful, trustful, wedded love, 

The two hands pointing straight 
above, 

This vast midnight, this argent June! 

Their noon was midnight and the 
moon 

Came through the silken sheen and 
laid 

A sword of silver at her side. 

And peace, sweet, perfect peace was 
hers, 


540 


As when nor bird nor blossom stirs, 
And she was now no more afraid; 
The moon surrendered to the maid, 
Drew back and softly turned aside, 
As bridesmaid turning from the bride. 


XXXIX 
All voiceless, noiseless, tenderly 


He pressed beside her, took her 
hand— 


CHith Lobe to Bou and Wours 


He took her from the leaning 
moon, 

And far beyond the amber sea, 

They sailed the seas of afternoon— 

The far, still seas, so grandly grand, 

Until they came to babyland. 

And there Creation was and there 

Were giants in the land, 
more, 

Long-lived and valiant as of yore, 

Yet gentle, patient as His Prayer. 


SIT LUX 


WITH LOVE TO YOU AND YOURS 


“And God said, Let there be light.” 


Rise up! How brief this little day? 
We can but kindle some dim light 
Here in the darkened, wooded way 
Before the gathering of night. 

Come, let us kindle it. The dawn 
Shall find us tenting farther on. 

Come, let us kindle ere we go— 

We know not where; but this we know, 
Night cometh on, and man needs light. 
Come! camp-fire embers, ere we grope 
Yon gray archway of night. 


Life is so brief, so very brief, 
So rounded in, we scarce can see 
The fruitage grown amid the leaf 
And foliage of a single tree 
In all God's garden; yet we know 
That goodly fruits must grow and grow 
Beyond our vision. We but stand 
In some deep hollow of God’s hand, 
Hear some sweet bird its little day, 


Safe in the hollow of God’s hand, 


See cloud and sun a season pass, 
And then, sweet friend, away! 


Clouds pass, they come again; and 


we, 
Are we, then, less than these to God? 
Oh, for the stout faith of a tree 
That drops its small seeds to the sod, 


And knows that perish from the land 


It shall not! Yea, this much we know, > 


That each, as best it can, shall grow 
As God has fashioned, fair or plain, 
To do its best, or cloud or sun, 

Or in His still, small rain. 


Oh, good to see is faith in God! 
But better far is faith in good: 
The one seems but a sign, a nod, 
The one seems God’s own flesh and 
blood. 
How many names of God are sungl 
But good is good in every tongue. 


once 


With Lobe to Pou and Dours 


And this the light, the Holy Light 

That leads thro’ night and night and 
night; 

Thro’ nights named Death, that he 
between 

The days named Life, the ladder round 

Unto the Infinite Unseen. - 


‘“‘Tn the beginning God created the 
heaven and the earth; the earth was 
without form and void and darkness 
lay upon the deep and the spirit of 
God moved upon the face of the 
waters.” 


PART GIRS f. 
I 


What is there in a dear dove’s eyes, 

Or voice of mated melodies, 

That tells us ever of blue skies 

And cease of deluge on Love’s seas? 

The dove looked down on Jordan’s 
tide 

Well pleased with Christ the Cruci- 
fied; 

The dove was hewed in Karnak stone 

Before fair Jordan’s banks were 
known. 

The dove has such a patient look, 

I read rest in her pretty eyes 

As in the Holy Book. 


. I think if I should love some day— 
And may I die when dear Love dies— 
I’d sail brave San Francisco’s Bay 
And seek to see some sea-dove’s eyes: 
To see her in her air-built nest, 

Her wide, warm, restful wings at rest; 
To see her rounded neck reach out, 


541 


Her eyes lean lovingly about; 

And seeing this as love can see, 

J then should know, and surely know, 
That love sailed on with me. 


Il 


See once this boundless bay and 

live, 

See once this beatiteous bay and love, 

See once this warm, bright bay and 
give 

God thanks for olive branch and dove. 

Then plunge headlong yon sapphire 
sea 

And sail and sail the world with 
IEW ie : 

Some isles, drowned in the drowning 
sun, 

Ten thousand sea-doves voiced as 
one; 

Lo! love’s wings furled and wings 
unfurled; 

Who sees not this warm, half-world 
sea, 

Sees not, knows not the world. 


How knocks he at the Golden Gate, 
This lord of waters, strong and bold, 
And fearful-voiced and fierce as fate, 
And hoar and old, as Time is old; 

Yet young as when God’s finger lay 

Against Night’s forehead that first 
day, 

And drove vast Darkness forth, and 
rent 

The waters from the firmament. 

Hear how he knocks and raves and 
loves! 

He woos us through the Golden Gate 

With all his soft sea-doves. 


542 


Now on and on, up, down, and on, 
The sea is oily grooves; the air 
Is as your bride’s sweet breath at 
dawn 
When all your ardent youth is there. 
And oh, the rest! and oh, the room! 
And oh, the sensuous sea perfume! 
Yon new moon peering as we passed 
Has scarce escaped our topmost mast. 
A porpoise, wheeling restlessly, 
Quick draws a bright, black, dripping 
blade, 
Then sheathes it in the sea. 


Vast, half-world, wondrous sea of 

ours! 

Dread, unknown deep of all sea deeps! 

What fragrance from thy strange 
sea-flowers 

Deep-gardened where God’s silence 
keeps! 

Thy song is silence, and thy face 

Is God’s face in His holy place. 

Thy billows swing sweet censer foam, 

Where stars hang His cathedral’s 
dome. 

Such blue above, below such blue! 

These burly winds so tall, they can 

Scarce walk between the two. 


Such room of sea! 
sky! 
Such room to draw a soul-full breath! 
Such room to live! Such room to die! 
Such room to roam in after death! 
White room, with sapphire room set 
round, 
And still beyond His room profound: 
Such room-bound boundlessness o’er- 
head 


Such room of 


ith Lobe to Dou and Wours 


As never has been writ or said 

Or seen, save by the favored few, 

Where kings of thought play chess 
with stars 

Across their board of blue. 


e e . ° ° e e 


III 


The proud ship wrapped her in the | 


red 


That hung from heaven, then the | 


gray, 


The soft dove-gray that shrouds the 


dead 


And prostrate form of perfumed day: | 


Some noisy, pigmy creatures kept 
The deck a spell, then, leaning, crept 
Apart in silence and distrust, 

Then down below in deep disgust. 
An albatross,—a shadow cross 

Hung at the head of buried day,— 
At foot the albatross. 


Then came a warm, soft, sultry 
breath— 
A weary wind that wanted rest; 
A breath as from some house of death 


a a a A eS el he 


With flowers heaped; as from the 


breast 

Of such sweet princess as had slept 

Some thousand years embalmed, and 
kept, 

In fearful Karnak’s tomb-hewn hill, 

Her perfume and spiced sweetness 
still,— 

Such breath as bees droop down to 
meet, 

And creep along lest it may melt 

Their honey-laden feet. 


The captain’s trumpet smote the 
air! 
Swift men, like spiders up a thread, 
Swept suddenly. Then masts were 
bare 
As when tall poplars’ leaves are shed, 
And ropes were clamped and stays 
were clewed. 
"T was as when wrestlers, iron-thewed 
Gird tight their loins, take full breath, 
And set firm face, as fronting death. 
Three small brown birds, or gray, so 
small, 
So ghostly still and swift they passed, 
They scarce seemed birds at all. 


Then quick, keen saber-cuts, like 
ice; 
Then sudden hail, like battle-shot, 
Then two last men crept down like 
mice, 
And man, poor, pigmy man, was not. 
The great ship shivered, as with 
cold— 
An instant staggered back, then bold 
As Theodosia, to her waist 
In waters, stood erect and faced 
Black thunder; and she kept her way 
And laughed red lightning from her 
face 
As on some gala day. 


The black sea-horses rode in row; 
| Their white manes tossing to the 
night 
But made the blackness blacker grow 
From flashing, phosphorescent light. 
_ And how like hurdle steeds they leapt! 
The low moon burst; the black troop 
swept 

Right through her hollow, on and on. 


With Lobe to Dou and Pours 


543 


A wave-wet simitar was drawn, 

Flashed twice, flashed thrice trium- 
phantly, 

But still the steeds dashed on, dashed 
on, 

And drowned her in the sea. 


What headlong winds that lost 

their way 

At sea, and wailed out for the shore! 

How shook the orient doors of day 

With all this mad, tumultuous roar! 

Black clouds, shot through with stars 
of red; 

Strange stars, storm-born and _fire- 
fed; 

Lost stars that came, and went, and 
came; 

Such stars as never yet had name. 

The far sea-lions on their isles 

Upheaved their huge heads terrified, 

And moaned a thousand miles. 

What fearful battle-field! What 

space 

For light and darkness, flame and 
flood! 

Lo! Light and Darkness, face to face, 

In battle harness battling stood! 

And how the surged sea burst upon 

The granite gates of Oregon! 

It tore, it tossed the seething spume, 

And wailed for room! and room! and 
room! 

It shook the crag-built eaglets’ nest 

Until they screamed from out their 
clouds, 

Then rocked them back to rest. 


How fiercely reckless raged the 
war! 


544 


Then suddenly no ghost of light, 

Or even glint of storm-born star. 

Just night, and black, torn bits of 
night; 

Just night, and midnight’s middle 
noon, 

With all mad elements in tune; 

Just night, and that continuous roar 

Of wind, wind, night, and nothing 
more. 

Then all the hollows of the main 

Sank down so deep, it almost seemed 

The seas were hewn in twain. 


How deep the hollows of this deep! 
How high, how trembling high the 


crest! 

Ten thousand miles of surge and 
sweep 

And length and breadth of billow’s 
breast! 


Up! up, as if against the skies! 

Down! down, as if no more to rise! 

The creaking wallow in the trough, 

As if the world was breaking off. 

The pigmies in their trough down 
there! 

Deep in their trough they tried to 
pray— 

To hide from God in prayer. 


Then boomed Alaska’s great, first 
gun 

In battling ice and rattling hail; 
Then Indus came, four winds in one! 
Then came Japan in counter mail 
Of mad cross winds; and Waterloo 
Was but as some babe’s tale unto. 
The typhoon spun his toy in play 
And whistled as a glad boy may 
To see his top spin at his feet: 


@CHith Hove to Dou and Wourg 


The captain on his bridge in ice, 
His sailors mailed in sleet. 


What unchained, unnamed, noises, © 


space! 


What shoreless, boundless, rounded — 


reach 


Of room was here! Fit field, fit place { 


For three fierce emperors, where each — 


Came armed with elements that make | 
Or unmake seas and lands, that shake 
The heavens’ roof, that freeze or 


burn 


The seas as they may please to turn. si 
Not asound | 


| 


And such black silence! 
Save whistling of that mad, glad boy © 
To see his top spin round. 


Then swift, like some sulked Ajax, — 


burst 


Thewed Thunder from his battle- s 


tent; 
Asif in pent-up, vengeful thirst 
For blood, the elements of Earth were — 
rent, ; 
And sheeted crimson lay a wedge 
Of blood below black Tthunder’s edge. — 
A pause. 
wheeled, i 


The typhoon turned, up- 


| 


| 


And wrestled Death till heaven reeled. 


Then Lightning reached a fiery rod, 

And on Death’s fearful forehead 
wrote 

The autograph of God. 


IV 


God’s name and face—what need — 
of more? 


Morn came: calm came; and holy | 


light, 


And warm, sweet weather, leaning 
o’er, 

Laid perfumes on the tomb of night. 
The three wee birds came dimly back 
And housed about the mast in black, 
And all the tranquil sense of morn 
Seemed as Dakota’s fields of corn, 
Save that some great soul-breaking 
sigh 

Now sank the proud ship out of sight, 
Now sent her to the sky. 


V 


One strong, strange man had kept 
the deck— 

One silent, seeing man, who knew 

The pulse of Nature, and could reck 

Her deepest heart-beats through and 

through. 

- He knew the night, he loved the night. 

When elements went forth to fight 

His soul went with them without fear 

To hear God’s voice, so few will hear. 

| The swine had plunged them in the 

sea, 

The swine down there, but up on 

deck 

_ The captain, God and he. 


VI 


And oh, such sea-shell tints of light 
| High o’er those wide sea-doors of 
dawn! 

Sail, sail the world for that one sight, 
Then satisfied, let time begone. 

_ The ship rose up to meet that light, 
Bright candles, tipped like tasseled 
corn, 

The holy virgin, maiden morn, 


35 


With Love to Bou and Pours 


545 


Arrayed in woven gold and white. 
Put by the harp—hush minstrelsy; 
Nor bard or bird has yet been heard 
To sing this scene, this sea. 


Vil 


Such light! such liquid, molten 

light! 

Such mantling, healthful, heartful 
morn! 

Such morning born of such mad night! 

Such night as never had been born! 

The man caught in his breath, his 
face 

Was lifted up to light and space; 

His hand dashed o’er his brow, as 
when 

Deep thoughts submerge the souls of 
men; 

And then he bowed, bowed mute, 
appalled 

At memory of scenes, such scenes 

As this swift morn recalled. 


He sought the ship’s prow, as men 

seek 

The utmost limit for their feet, 

To lean, look forth, to list nor speak, 

Nor turn aside, nor yet retreat 

One inch from this far vantage- 
ground, 

Till he had pierced the dread pro- 
found 

And proved it false. And yet he knew 

Deep in his earth that all was true; 

So like it was to that first dawn 

When God had said, ‘‘Let there be 
light,’’ 

And thus he spake right on: 


546 


‘My soul was born ere light was 
born, 
When blackness was, as this black 
night. 
And then that morn, as this sweet 
morn! 
That sudden light, as this swift light! 
I had forgotten. Now, I know 
The travail of the world, the low, 
Dull creatures in the sea of slime 
That time committed unto time, 
As great men plant oaks patiently, 
Then turn in silence unto dust 
And wait the coming tree. 


“That long, lorn blackness, seams 
of flame, 
Volcanoes bursting from the slime, 
Huge, shapeless monsters without 
name 
Slow shaping in the loom of time; 
Slow weaving as a weaver weaves; 
So like as when some good man leaves 
His acorns to the centuries 
And waits the stout ancestral trees. 
But ah, so piteous, memory 
Reels back, as sickened, from that 
scene— 
It breaks the heart of me! 


“Volcanoes crying out for light! 
The very slime found tongues of fire! 
Huge monsters climbing in their 

might 
O’er submerged monsters in the mire 
That heaved their slimy mouths, and 
cried 
And cried for light, and crying, died. 
How all that wailing through the air 
But seems as some unbroken prayer. 


Cith Love to Bou and ours 


One ceaseless prayer that long lorn | 


night 
The world lay in the loom of time 
And waited so for light! 


‘‘And I, amid those monsters there, _ 


A grade above, or still below? 

Nay, Time has never time to care; 

And I can scarcely dare to know. 

I but remember that one prayer; 

Ten thousand wide mouths in the air, 

Ten thousand monsters in their 
might, 

All eyeless, looking up for light. 

We prayed, we prayed as never man, 

By sea or land, by deed or word, 

Has prayed since light began. 


“Great sea-cows laid their fins 
upon 


Low-floating isles, as good priests lay — 


Two holy hands, at early dawn, 
Upon the altar cloth to pray. 
Aye, ever so, with lifted head, 


Poor, slime-born creatures and slime-. 


bred, 


“We prayed. Our sealed-up eyes of 


night 
All lifting, lifting up for light. 
And I have paused to wonder, when 
This world will pray as we then 
prayed, 
What God may not give men! 


“Hist! Once I saw,—What was I 


then? 
Ah, dim and devious the light 
Comes back, but I was not of men. 
And it is only such black night 
As this, that was of war and strife 
Of elements, can wake that life, 


| 
nef 
| 


| 


q 


With Love to Dou and Bours 


That life in death, that black and 


cold 
And blind and loveless life of old. 
But hear! I saw—heed this and 
learn 
How old, how holy old is Love, 
However Time may turn: 


“T saw, I saw, or somehow felt, 

A sea-cow mother nurse her young. 
I saw, and with thanksgiving knelt, 
To see her head, low, loving, hung 
Above her nursling. Then the light, 
The lovelight from those eyes of 
night! 

I say to you ’t was lovelight then 
That first lit up the eyes of men. 

I say to you lovelight was born 

Ere God laid hand to clay of man, 
Or ever that first morn. 


‘‘What though a monster slew her 
so, 

The while she bowed and nursed her 

young? 

She leaned her head to take the blow, 

And dying, still the closer clung— 

And dying gave her life to save 

The helpless life she erstwhile gave, 

And so sank back below the slime, 

A torn shred in the loom of time. 

The one thing more I needs must say, 

That monster slew her and her young; 

But Love he could not slay.”’ 


PART SECOND 
I 


The man stood silent, peering past 
His utmost verge of memory. 
What lay beyond, beyond that vast 


547 


Bewildering darkness and dead sea 
Of noisome vapors and dread night? 
No light! not any sense of light 
Beyond that life when Love was born 
On that first, far, dim rim of morn: 
No light beyond that beast that clung 
In darkness by the light of love 
And died to save her young. 


And yet we know life must have 
been 

Before that dark, dread life of pain; 
Life germs, love germs of gentle men, 
So small, so still; as still, small rain. 
But whence this life, this living soul, 
This germ that grows a godlike whole? 
I can but think of that sixth day 
When God first set His hand to clay, 
And did in His own image plan 
A perfect form, a manly form, 
A comely, godlike man. 


II 


Did soul germs grown down in the 

deeps, 

The while God’s Spirit moved upon 

The waters? High-set Lima keeps 

A rose-path, like a ray of dawn; 

And simple, pious peons say 

Sweet Santa Rosa passed that way; 

And so, because of her fair fame 

And saintly face, these roses came. 

Shall we not say, ere that first morn, 

Where God moved, garmented in 
mists, 

Some sweet soul germs were born? 


Til 


The strange, strong man still kept 
the prow; 


548 


He saw, still saw before light was, 

The dawn of love, the huge sea-cow, 

The living slime, love’s deathless 
laws. 

He knew love lived, lived ere a blade 

Of grass, or ever light was made; 

And love was in him, of him, as 

The light was on the sea of glass. 

It made his heart great, and he grew 

To look on God all unabashed; 

To look lost eons through. 


IV 


Illuming love! what talisman! 

That Word which makes the world 
go ’round! 

That Word which bore worlds in its 
plan! 

That Word which was the Word 
profound! 

That Word which was the great First 
Cause, 

Before light was, before sight was! 

I would not barter love for gold 

Enough to fill a tall ship’s hold; 

Nay, not for great Victoria’s worth— 

So great the sun sets not upon 

In all his round of earth. 


I would not barter love for all 

The silver spilling from the moon; 

I would not barter love at all 

Though you should coin each after- 
noon 

Of gold for centuries to be, 

And count the coin all down as free 

As conqueror fresh home from wars,— 

Coin sunset bars, coin heaven-born 
stars, 

Coin all below, coin all above, 


With Love to Dou and Wours 


Count all down at my feet, yet I— 
I would not barter love. 


V 


The lone man started, stood as 
when 


A strong man hears, yet does not | 


hear. 


He raised his hand, let fall, and then _ 
Quick arched his hand above his ear 


And leaned a little; yet no sound 


Broke through the vast, serene pro- © 


found. 


Man’s soul first knew some telephone © 


In sense and language all its own. 


The tall man heard, yet did not hear; © 


He saw, and yet he did not see 
A fair face near and dear. 


For there, half hiding, crouching 


there 
Against the capstan, coils on coils 


Of rope, some snow still in her hair, FI 


Like Time, too eager for his spoils, 
Was such fair face raised to his face 


As only dream of dreams give place; 
sea-shell 


Such shyness, boldness, 
tint, 
Such book as only God may print, 


Such tender, timid, holy look 


Of startled love and trust and hope,— 


A gold-bound storybook. 


And while the great ship rose and bY 


fell, 
Or rocked or rounded with the sea, 
He saw,—a little thing to tell, 
An idle, silly thing, maybe,— 


Where her right arm was bent to 


clasp 


Her robe’s fold in some closer clasp, 

A little isle of melting snow 

That round about and to and fro 

: And up and down kept eddying. 

It told so much, that idle isle, 
Yet such a little thing. 


Tt told she, too, was of a race 
Born ere the baby stars were born; 


She, too, familiar with God’s face, 


Knew folly but to shun and scorn; 


- She, too, all night had sat to read 


By heaven’s light, to hear, to heed 


| The awful voice of God, to grow 
In thought, to see, to feel, to know 


The harmony of elements 


That tear and toss the sea of seas 
To foam-built battle-tents. 


He saw that drifting isle of snow, 
As some lorn miner sees bright gold 
Seamed deep in quartz, and joys to 

know 
That here lies hidden wealth untold. 
And now his head was lifted strong, 
As glad men lift the head in song. 
He knew she, too, had spent the night 
As he, in all that wild delight 
Of tuneful elements; she, too, 
He knew, was of that olden time 
Ere oldest stars were new. 


VI 


Her soul’s ancestral book bore date 
Beyond the peopling of the moon, 
Beyond the day when Saturn sate 
In royal cincture, and the boon 
Of light and life bestowed on stars 
And satellites; ere martial Mars 
Waxed red with battle rage and shook 


With Lobe to Dou and Bours 


949 


The porch of heaven with a look; 
Ere polar ice-shafts propt gaunt earth 
And slime was but the womb of time, 
That knew not yet of birth. 


Vil 


To be what thou wouldst truly be, 
Be bravely, truly, what thou art. 
The acorn houses the huge tree, 
And patient, silent bears its part, 
And bides the miracle of time. 

For miracle, and more sublime 

It is than all that has been writ, 

To see the great oak grow from it. 

But thus the soul grows, grows the 
heart,— 

To be what thou wouldst truly be. 

Be truly what thou art. 


To be what thou wouldst truly be, 
Be true. God’s finger sets each seed, 
Or when or where we may not see; 
But God shall nourish to its need 
Each one, if but it dares be true; 

To do what it is set to do. 

Thy proud soul’s heraldry? ’T is writ 
In every gentle action; it 

Can never be contested. Time 
Dates thy brave soul’s ancestral book 
From thy first deed sublime. 


VIII 


Wouldst learn to know one little 
flower, 
Its perfume, perfect form and hue? 
Yea, wouldst thou have one perfect 
hour 
Of all the years that come to you? 
Then grow as God hath planted, grow 


959 


A lordly oak or daisy low, 

As He hath set His garden; be 
Just what thou art, or grass or tree. 
Thy treasures up in heaven laid 
Await thy sure ascending soul, 
Life after life,—be not afraid! 


IX 
Wouldst know the secrets of the 
soil? 
Wouldst have Earth bare her breast 
to you? 
Wouldst know the sweet rest of hard 
toil? 


Be true, be true, be ever true! 

Ah me, these self-made cuts of wrong 

That hew men down! Behold the 
strong 

And comely Adam bound with lies 

And banished from his paradise! 

The serpent on his belly still 

Eats dirt through all his piteous days, 

Do penance as he will. 


Poor, heel-bruised, prostrate, tortu- 

ous snake! 

What soul crawls here upon the 
ground? 

God willed his soul at birth to take 

The round of beauteous things, the 
round 

Of earth, the round of boundless skies. 

Tt lied, and lo! how low it lies! 

What quick, sleek tongue to lie with 
here! 

Wast thou a broker but last year? 

Wast known to fame, wast rich and 
proud? 

Didst live a lie that thou mightst die 

With pockets in thy shroud? 


With Love to Bou and Pours 


xX 


Be still, be pitiful! that soul 
May yet be rich in peace as thine 
Yea, as the shining ages roll 
That rich man’s soul may rise and 
shine 
Beyond Orion; yet may reel 
The Pleiades with belts of steel 
That compass commerce in their 
reach; 


May learn and learn, and learning © | 


teach, 


The while his soul grows grandly old, — 2 


How nobler far to share a crust 
Than hoard car-loads of gold! 


XI 


Oh, but to know; to surely know 
How strangely beautiful is light! 
How just one gleam of light will glow 
And grow more beautifully bright 
Than all the gold that ever lay 
Below the wide-arched Milky Way! 
‘‘Let there be light!’’ and lo! the 

burst 
Of light in answer to the first 
Command of high Jehovah’s voice! 
Let there be light for man to-night, 
That all men may rejoice. 


XII 


The little isle of ice and snow 
That in her gathered garment lay, 
And dashed and drifted to and fro 
Unhindered of her, went its way. 
The while the warm winds of Japan 
Were with them, and the silent man 


: 
| 
| 
4 
| 


With Love to Dou and Dours 


Stood by her, saying, hearing naught, 
Yet seeing, noting all; as one 

Sees not, yet all day sees the sun. 
He knew her silence, heeded well 

Her dignity of idle hands 

In this deep, tranquil spell. 


XIII 


The true soul surely knows its own, 

Deep down in this man’s heart he 
knew, 

Somehow, somewhere along the zone 
Of time, his soul should come unto 
Its safe seaport, some pleasant land 
Of rest where she should reach a hand. 
He had not questioned God. His care 
Was to be worthy, fit to share 
The glory, peace, and perfect rest, 
Come how or when or where it comes, 
As God in time sees best. 


Her face reached forward, not to 

him, 

But forward, upward, as for light; 

For light that lay a silver rim 

Of sea-lit whiteness more than white. 

The vast full morning poured and 
spilled 

Its splendor down, and filled and filled 

And overfilled the heaped-up sea 

With silver molten suddenly. 

The night lay trenched in her meshed 
hair; 

The tint of sea-shells left the sea 

-To make her more than fair. 


What massed, what matchless 
midnight hair! 
Her wide, sweet, sultry, drooping 
mouth, 


551 


As droops some flower when the air 

Blows odors from the ardent South— 

That Sapphic, sensate, bended bow 

Of deadly archery; as though 

Love's legions fortressed there and 
sent 

Red arrows from his bow fell bent. 

Such apples! such sweet fruit con- 
cealed 

Of perfect womanhood make more 

Sweet pain than if revealed. 


XIV 


How good a thing it is to house 
Thy full heart treasures to that day 
When thou shalt take her, and 

carouse 
Thenceforth with her for aye and 
aye; 
How good a thing to give the store 
That thus the thousand years or 
more, 
Poor, hungered, holy worshiper, 
You kept for her, and only her! 
How well with all thy wealth to wait 
Or year, or thousand thousand years, 
Her coming at love’s gate! 


XV 


The winds pressed warm from 
warm Japan 
Upon her pulsing womanhood. 
They fanned such fires in the man 
His face shone glory where he stood. 
In Persia’s rose-fields, I have heard, 
There sings a sad, sweet, one-winged 
bird; 
Sings ever sad in lonely round 
Until his one-winged mate is found; 


992 


And then, side laid to side, they rise 
So swift, so strong, they even dare 
The doorway of the skies. 


XVI 


How rich was he! how richer she! 
Such treasures up in heaven laid, 
Where moth and rust may never be, 
Nor thieves break in, or make afraid. 
Such treasures, where the tranquil 

soul 
Walks space, nor limit nor control 
Can know, but journeys on and on 
Beyond the golden gates of dawn; 
Beyond the outmost round of Mars; 
Where God’s foot rocks the cradle of 
His new-born baby stars. 


XVII 


As one who comes upon a street, 
Or sudden turn in pleasant path, 
As one who suddenly may meet 
Some scene, some sound, some sense 
that hath 
A memory of olden days, 
Of days that long have gone their 
ways, 
She caught her breath, caught quick 
and fast 
Her breath, as if her whole life passed 
Before, and pendant to and fro 
Swung in the air before her eyes; 
And oh, her heart beat so! 


How her heart beat! Three thou- 
sand years 
Of weary, waiting womanhood, 


Of folded hands, of falling tears, 


CHith Lobe to Bou and Wours 


Of lone soul-wending through dark 
wood; 

But now at last to meet once more 

Upon the bright, all-shining shore 

Of earth, in life’s resplendent dawn, 

And he so fair to look upon! 

Tall Phaon and the world aglow! 

Tall Phaon, favored of the gods, 

And oh, her heart beat so! 


Her heart beat so, no word she 
spake; 
She pressed her palms, she leaned her 
face,— 
Her heart beat so, its beating brake 
The cord that held her robe in place 
About her wondrous, rounded throat, 
And in the warm winds let it float 
And fall upon her soft, round arm, 
So warm it made the morning warm. 
Then pink and pearl forsook. her 
cheek, 
And, “‘Phaon, I am Sappho, I~” 
Nay, nay, she did not speak. 


And was this Sappho, she who sang 
When mournful Jeremiah wept? 
When harps, where weeping willows 

hang, 
Hung mute and all their music kept? 
Such witchery of song as drew 
The war-like world to hear her sing, 
As moons draw mad seas following. 
Aye, this was Sappho; Lesbos hill 


Had all been hers, and Tempé’s vale, | 


And song sweet as to kill, 


Her dark Greek eyes turned to the 
sea; 
Lo, Phaon’s ferry as of old! 
He kept his boat’s prow still, and he 


Wiith Lobe to Dou and Dours 


Was stately, comely, strong, and bold 
As when he ferried gods, and drew 
Immortal youth from one who knew 
His scorn of gold. The Lesbian shore 
Lay yonder, and the rocky roar 
Against the promontory told, 

Told and retold her tale of love 
That never can grow old. 


Three thousand years! yet love 

was young 

And fair as when Aolis knew 

Her glory, and her great soul strung 

The harp that still sweeps ages 
through. 

Tonic dance or Doric war, 

Or purpled dove or dulcet car, 

Or unyoked dove or close-yoked dove, 

What meant it all but love and love? 

And at the naming of Love’s name 

She raised her eyes, and lo! her doves! 

Just of old they came. 


PART THIRD 
I 
And they sailed on; the sea-doves 
sailed, 
-And Love sailed with them. And 
there lay 


Such peace as never had prevailed 

On earth since dear Love’s natal day. 

- Great black-backed whales blew bows 
in clouds, 

Wee sea-birds flitted through the 
shrouds. 

A wide-winged, amber albatross 

Blew by, and bore his shadow cross, 

And seemed to hang it on the mast, 


553 


The while he followed far behind, 
The great ship flew so fast. 


She questioned her if Phaon knew, 
If he could dream, or halfway guess 
How she had tracked the ages through 
And trained her soul to gentleness 
Through many lives, through every 

part 
To make her worthy his great heart. 
Would Phaon turn and fly her still, 
With that fierce, proud, imperious 
will, 
And scorn her still, and still despise? 
She shuddered, turned aside her face, 
And lo, her sea-dove’s eyes! 


II 


Then days of rest and restful 

nights; 

And love kept tryst as true love will, 

The prow their trysting-place. De- 
lights 

Of silence, simply sitting still,— 

Of asking nothing, saying naught; 

For all that they had ever sought 

Sailed with them; words or deeds had 
been 

Impertinence, a selfish sin. 

And oh, to know how sweet a thing 

Is silence on those restful seas 

When Love’s dove folds her wing! 

The great sea slept. In vast re- 

pose 

His pillowed head half-hidden lay, 

Half-drowned in dread Alaskan snows 

That stretch to where no man can 
say. 

His huge arms tossed to left, to right, 


904 


Where black woods, banked like bits 
of night, 

As sleeping giants toss their arms 

At night about their fearful forms. 

A slim canoe, a night-bird’s call, 

Some gray sea-doves, just these and 
Love, 

And Love indeed was all! 


III 


Far, far away such cradled Isles 
As Jason dreamed and Argos sought 
Surge up from endless watery miles! 
And thou, the pale high priest of 

thought, 
The everlasting thronéd king 
Of fair Samoa! Shall I bring 
Sweet sandal-wood? Or shall I lay 
Rich wreaths of California’s bay 
From sobbing maidens? Stevenson, 
Sleep well. Thy work is done; well 
done! 
So bravely, bravely done! 


And Molokia’s lord of love 
And tenderness, and piteous tears 
For stricken man! Go forth, O dove! 
With olive branch, and still the fears 
Of those he meekly died to save. 
They shall not perish. From that 

grave 

Shall grow such healing! such as He 
Gave stricken men by Galilee. 
Great ocean cradle, cradle, keep 
These two, the chosen of thy heart, 
Rocked in sweet, baby sleep. 


IV 


Fair land of flowers, land of flame, 
Of sun-born seas, of sea-born clime, 


ith Lobe to Wou and Pours 


Of clouds low shepherded and tame 

As white pet sheep at shearing time, 

Of great, white, generous high-born 
rain, 

Of rainbows builded not in vain— 

Of rainbows builded for the feet 

Of love to pass dry-shod and fleet 

From isle to isle, when smell of musk 

’Mid twilight is, and one lone star 

Sits in the brow of dusk. 


Oh, dying, sad-voiced, sea-born 

maid! 

And plundered, dying, still sing on. 

Thy breast against the thorn is laid— 

Sing on, sing on, sweet dying swan. 

How pitiful! And so despoiled 

By those you fed, for whom you 
toiled! 

Aloha! Hail you, and farewell, 

Far echo of some lost sea-shell! 

Some song that lost its way at sea, 

Some sea-lost notes of nature, lost, 

That crying, came to me. 


Dusk maid, adieu! One sea-shell 
less! 

Sa sea-shell silenced and forgot. 

O Rachel in the wilderness, 

Wail on! 
not. 

And they who took them, they who 
laid 


Hard hand, shall they not feel afraid? 


Shall they who in the name of God 

Robbed and enslaved, escape His 
rod? 

Give me some after-world afar 


From these hard men, for well I know - 


Hell must be where they are. 


Your children they are 


V 


Lo! suddenly the lone ship burst 
Upon an uncompleted world, 

A world so dazzling white, man durst 
Not face the flashing search-light 
hurled 

From heaven’s snow-built battle- 
ments 

And high-heaved camp of cloud- 
wreathed tents. 

And boom! boom! boom! from sea or 
shore 

Came one long, deep, continuous roar, 
As if God wrought; as if the days, 
The first six pregnant mother morns, 
Had not quite gone their way. 


~ What word is fitting but the Word 
Here in this vast world-fashioning? 
What tongue here name the nameless 
Lord? 

What hand lay hand on anything? 
Come, let us coin new words of might 
And massiveness to name this light, 
This largeness, largeness everywhere! 
White rivers hanging in the air, 
Ice-tied through all eternity! 

Nay, peace! It were profane to say: 
We dare but hear and see. 


Be silent! Hear the strokes re- 
sound! 

|’ is God’s hand rounding down the 
earth. 


Take off thy shoes, ’t is holy ground, 
Behold! a continent has birth! 

The skies bow down, Madonna’s blue 
_Enfolds the sea in sapphire. You 
May lift, a little spell, your eyes 


With Lobe to Dou and Wours 


599 


And feast them on the ice-propped 

skies, 
And feast but for a little space: 
Then let thy face fall grateful down 
And let thy soul say grace. 


VI 


At anchor so, and all night through, 
The two before God’s temple kept. 
Hespake: ‘‘I know yon peak; I knew 
A deepice-cavern there. I slept 
With hairy men, or monsters slew, 
Or led down misty seas my crew 
Of cruel savages and slaves, 

And slew who dared the distant 
waves, 

And once a strange, strong ship—and 
she, 

I bore her to yon cave of ice,— 

And Love companioned me. 


VII 


“Two scenes of all scenes from the 

first 

Have come to me on this great sea: 

The one when light from heaven 
burst, 

The one when sweet Love came to 
me. 

And of the two, or best or worst, 

I ever hold this second first, 

Bear with me. Yonder citadel 

Of ice tells all my tongue can tell: 

My thirst for love, my pain, my 
pride, 

My soul’s warm youth the while she 
lived, 

Its old age when she died. 


556 


“T know not if she loved or no. 

I only asked to serve and love; 

To love and serve, and ever so 

My love grew as grows light above,— 

Grew from gray dawn to gold midday, 

And swept the wide world in its 
sway. 

The stars came down, so close they 
came, 

I called them, named them with her 
name, 

The kind moon came,—came once so 
near, 

That in the hollow of her arm 

T leaned my lifted spear. 


“And yet, somehow, for all the 
stars, 

And all the silver of the moon, 
She looked from out her icy bars 
As longing for some sultry noon; 
As longing for 37ome warmer kind, 
Some far south sunland left behind. 
Then I went down to sea. I sailed 
Thro’ seas where monstrous beasts 


prevailed, 

Such slimy, shapeless, hungered 
things! 

Red griffins, wide-winged, bat-like 
wings, 


Black griffins, black or fire-fed, 
That ate my fever-stricken men 
Ere yet they were quite dead. 


“T could not find her love for her, 
Or land, or fit thing for her touch, 
And I came back, sad worshiper, 
And watched and longed and loved 

so much! 
IT watched huge monsters climb and 
pass 


@ith Lobe to Bou and Wours 


Reflected in great walls, like glass; 
Dark, draggled, hairy, fearful forms 
Upblown by ever-battling storms, 


And streaming still with slime and 


spray; 
So huge from out their sultry seas, 
Like storm-torn islands they. 


“Then even these she ceased to 
note, 
She ceased at last to look on me, 
But, baring to the sun her throat, 
She looked and looked incessantly 
Away against the south, away 
Against the sun the livelong day. 
At last I saw her watch the swan 
Surge tow’rd the north, surge on and 
on. 
I saw her smile, her first, faint smile; 


Then burst a new-born thought, and — 


I, 
I nursed that all the while. 


VIII 


“IT somehow dreamed, or guessed, 
or knew, 


That somewhere in the dear earth’s 


heart 


Was warmth and tenderness and 


true 

Delight, and all love’s nobler part. 

I tried to think, aye, thought and 
thought; 


In all the strange fruits that I brought 


For her delight I could but find 
The sweetness deep within the rind. 
All beasts, all birds, some better part 
Of central being deepest housed; 
And earth must have a heart. 


With Love to Dou and Bours 


““T watched the wide-winged birds 

that blew 

Continually against the bleak 

And ice-built north, and surely knew 

The long, lorn croak, the reaching 
beak, 

Led not to ruin evermore; 

For they came back came swooping 
o’er 

Each spring, with clouds of younger 
ones, 

So dense, they dimmed the summer 
suns. 

And thus I knew somehow, some- 
where, 

Beyond earth’s ice-built, star-tipt 
peaks 

They found a softer air. 


‘And too, I heard strange stories, 
held 

In memories of my hairy men, 
Vague, dim traditions, dim with eld, 
Of other lands and ages when 
Nor ices were, nor anything; 
But ever one warm, restful spring 
Of radiant sunlight: stories told 
By dauntless men of giant mold, 
Who kept their cavern’s icy mouth 
Tce-locked, and hungered where they 
| sat, 

With sad eyes tow’rd the south: 


“ales of a time ere hate began, 

Of herds of reindeer, wild. beasts 
tamed, 

When man walked forth in love with 
man, 

Walked naked, and was not ashamed; 

Of how a brother beast he slew, 

Then night, and all sad sorrows knew; 


Soe 


How tame beasts were no longer 


tame; : 
How God drew His great sword of 
flame 
And drove man naked to the snow, 
Till, pitying, He made of skins 
A coat, and clothed him so. 


“And, true or not true, still the 

same, 

I saw continually at night 

That far, bright, flashing sword of 
flame, 

Misnamed the Borealis light; 

I saw my men, in coats of skin 

As God had clothed them, felt the 
sin 

And suffering of that first death 

Each day in every icy breath. 

Then why should I still disbelieve 

These tales of fairer lands than mine, 

And let my lady grieve? 


IX 


“Vea, I would find that land for 
her! 
Then dogs, and sleds, and swift 
reindeer; 
Huge, hairy men, all mailed in fur, 
Who knew not yet the name of fear, 
Nor knew fatigue, nor aught that 
ever 
To this day has balked endeavor. 
And we swept forth, while wide, swift 
wings 
Still sought the Pole in endless strings. 
I left her sitting looking south, 
Still leaning, looking to the sun,— 
My kisses on her mouth! 


CHith Lobe to 


xX 


558 


“Far toward the north, so tall, so 
far, 
One tallest ice shaft starward stood— 
Stood as if ’twere itself a star, 
Scarce fallen from its sisterhood. 
Tip-top the glowing apex there 
Upreared a huge white polar bear; 
He pushed his swart nose up and 
out, 
Then walked the North Star round 
about, 
Below the Great Bear of the main, 
The upper main, and as if chained, 
Chained with a star-linked chain. 


XI 


“And we pushed on, up, on, and 
on, 
Until, as in the world of dreams, 
We found the very doors of dawn 
With warm sun bursting through the 
seams. 
We brake them through, then down, 
far down, 
Until, as in some park-set town, 
We found lost Eden. Very rare 
The fruit, and all the perfumed air 
So sweet, we sat us down to feed 
And rest, without a thought or care, 
Or ever other need. 


“For all earth’s pretty birds were 
here; 
And women fair, and very fair; 
Sweet song was in the atmosphere, 
Nor effort was, nor noise, nor care. 
As cocoons from their silken house 
Wing forth and in the sun carouse, 


a feel 


Sees 


Dou and Wourg 


My men let fall their housings and 

Passed on and on, far down the 
land : 

Of purple grapes and poppy bloom. j 

Such warm, sweet land, such peaceful. 
land! 

Sweet peace and sweet perfume! 


i 
| 
4 


| 
| 
“And I pushed down ere I returned . 
To climb the cold world’s walls of 
snow, ri 
And saw where earth’s heart beat. 
| 
and burned, a 
An hundred sultry leagues below; 4 
Saw deep seas set with deep-sea isles i 
Of waving verdure; miles on miles 
Of rising sea-birds with their broods, 
In all their noisy, happy moods! g 
Aye, then I knew earth has a heart 


a 
7 


That Nature wastes nor space or 


| 
| 
place, ] 
But husbands every part. j 
XII q 
‘| 
““My reindeer fretted: 
back 
For her, the heart of me, my soul! 
Ah, then, how swift, how white my | 
track! ( 
All Paradise beneath the Pole 
Were but a mockery till she 
Should share its dreamful sweets with _ 
me. 
I know not oh what next befell, . 
Save that white heaven grew black. uy 
hell. : 
She sat with sad face to the south, ' 
Still sat, sat still; but she was dead— 
My kisses on her mouth. a 


I turned — : 


With Love to Dou and Pours 


XIII 


““What else to do but droop and 
die? 

But dying, how my poor soul yearned 
To fly as swift south birds may fly— 
To pass that way her eyes had turned, 
The dear days she had sat with me, 
And search and search eternity! 
And, do you know, I surely know 
That God has given us to go 
The way we will in life or death— 
To go, to grow, or good or ill, 
As one may draw a breath?”’ 


PART FOURTH 


I 


Nay, turn not to the past for light; 
Nay, teach not Pagan tale forsooth! 
Behind lie heathen gods and night, 
Before lifts high, white holy truth. 
Sweet Orpheus looked back, and lo, 
Hell met his eyes and endless woe! 
Lot’s wife looked back, and for this 

fell 
To something even worse than hell. 
Let us have faith, sail, seek and find 
The new world and the new world’s 
ways: 
Blind Homer led the blind! 


II 


" Come, let us kindle Faith in light! 

Yon eagle climbing to the sun 

Keeps not the straightest course in 
sight, 

But room and reach of wing and run 

Of rounding circle all are his, 


599 


Till he at last bathes in the light 

Of worlds that look far down on this 

Arena’s battle for the right. 

The stoutest sail that braves the 
breeze, 

The bravest battle ship that rides, 

Rides rounding up the seas. 


Come, let us kindle faith in man! 

What though yon eagle, where he 
swings, 

May moult a feather in God’s plan 
Of broader, stronger, better wings! 
Why, let the moulted feathers lie 
As thick as leaves upon the lawn: 
These be but proof we cleave the sky 
And still round on and on and on. 
Fear not for moulting feathers; nay, 
But rather fear when all seems fair, 
And care is far away. 


Come, let us kindle faith in God! 
He made, He kept, He still can keep. 
The storm obeys His burning rod, 
The storm brought Christ to walk the 

deep. 
Trust God to round His own at will; 
Trust God to keep His own for aye— 
Or strife or strike, or well or ill; 
An eagle climbing up the sky— 
A meteor down from heaven hurled— 
Trust God to round, reform, or rock 
His new-born baby world. 


III 


How full the great, full-hearted seas 
That lave high, white Alaska’s feet! 
How densely green the dense green 

trees! 


560 


How sweet the smell of wood! how 
sweet! | 

What sense of high, white newness 
where ; 

This new world breathes the new, blue 
air 

That never breath of man or breath 

Of mortal thing considereth! 

And O, that Borealis light! 

The angel with his flaming sword 

And never sense of night! 


IV 


Are these the walls of Paradise— 

Yon peaks the gates man may not 
pass? 

Lo, everlasting silence lies 

Along their gleaming ways of glass! 

Just silence and that sword of flame; 

Just silence and Jehovah’s name, 

Where all is new, unnamed, and 
white! 

Come, let us read where angels write— 

‘“‘In the beginning God’’—aye, these 

The waters where God’s Spirit 
moved; 

These, these, the very seas! 


Just one deep, wave-washed char- 
iot wheel: 
Such sunset as that far first day! 
An unsheathed sword of flame and 
steel; 
Then battle flashes; then dismay, 
And mad confusion of all hues 
That earth and heaven could infuse, 
Till all hues softly fused and blent 
In orange worlds of wonderment: 
Then dying day, in kingly ire, 


With Love to Bou and Pours 


Struck back with one last blow, and_ 
smote | 
The world with molten fire. 


So fell Alaska, proudly, dead 

In battle harness where he fought. 

But falling, still high o’er his head 

Far flashed his sword in crimson 
wrought, 

Till came his kingly foeman, Dusk, 

In garments moist with smell of 
musk, 

The bent moon moved down heaven’s 
steeps 

Low-bowed, as when a woman weeps; 

Bowed low, half-veiled in widowhood; 

Then stars tiptoed the peaks in gold 

And burned brown sandal-wood. 


Fit death of Day; fit burial rite 
Of white Alaska! Let us lay 
This leaflet ’mid the musky night 
Upon his tomb. Come, come away; 
For Phaon talks and Sappho turns 
To where the light of heaven burns — 
To love light, and she leans to hear 
With something more than mortal ear 
The while the ship has pushed her 

prow 

So close against the fir-set shore 
You breathe the spicy bough. 


V 


Some red men by the low white 
beach; . 
Camp fires, belts of dense, black fir: 
She leans as if she still would reach 
To him the very soul of her. 
The red flames cast a silhouette 
Against the snow, above the jet 


With Love to Dou and Pours 


Black, narrow night of fragrant fir, 

Behold, what ardent worshiper! 

Lim’d out against a glacier peak, 

With strong arms crossed upon his 
breast; 

The while she feels him speak: 


“How glad was I to walk with 
Death 
Far down his dim, still, trackless 
lands, 
Where wind nor wave nor any breath 
Broke ripples o’er the somber sands. 
IT walked with Death as eagerly 
As ever J had sailed this sea. 
Then on and on I searched, I sought, 
Yet all my seeking came to naught. 
I sailed by pleasant, peopled isles 
Of song and summer time; I sailed 
Ten thousand weary miles! 


“Theardasong! She had been sad, 
So sad and ever drooping she; 
How could she, then, in song be glad 
The while I searched? It could not 
be. 
And yet that voice! so like it seemed, 
I questioned if I heard or dreamed. 
She smiled on me. This made me 
scorn 
My very self; for I was born 
To loyalty. I would be true 
Unto my love, my soul, my self, 
Whatever death might do. 


_ “T fled her face, her proud, fair face, 
Her songs that won a world to her. 
Had she sat songless in her place, 
Sat with no single worshiper, 
Sat with bowed head, sad-voiced, 
alone, 
36 


561 


I might have known! I might have 
known! 

But how could I, the savage, know 

This sun, contrasting with that snow, 

Would waken her great soul to 
song 

That still thrills all the ages through? 

I blindly did such wrong! 


‘Again I fled. I ferried gods; 
Yet, pining still, I came to pine 
Where drowsy Lesbos Bacchus nods 
And drowned my soul in Cyprian 
wine. 

Drowned! drowned my poor, sad soul 
so deep, 

I sank to where damned serpents 
creep! 

Then slowly upward; round by round 

I toiled, regained this vantage-ground 

And now, at last, I claim mine own, 

As some long-banished king comes 
back 

To battle for his throne.”’ 


VI 


I do not say that thus he spake 
By word of mouth, by human speech; 
The sun in one swift flash will take 
A photograph of space and reach 
The realm of stars. A soul like his 
Is like unto the sun in this: 

Her soul the plate placed to receive 

The swift impressions, to believe, 

To doubt no more than you might 
doubt 

The wondrous midnight world of 
stars 

That dawn has blotted out. 


562 


VIT 


And Phaon loved her; he who knew 
The North Pole and the South, who 
named 
The stars for her, strode forth and 
slew 
Black, hairy monsters no man tamed; 
And all before fair Greece was born, 
Or Lesbos yet knew night or morn. 
No marvel that she knew him when 
He came, the chiefest of all men. 
No marvel that she loved and died, 
And left such marbled bits of song— 
Of broken Phidian pride. 


VIII 


Oh, but for that one further sense 
For man that man shall yet possess! 
That sense that puts aside pretense 
And sees the truth, that scorns to 


guess 
Or grope, or play at blindman’s 
buff, 
But knows rough diamonds in the 
rough! 


Oh, well for man when man shall see, 

As see he must man’s destiny! 

Oh, well when man shall know his 
mate, 

One-winged and desolate, lives on 

And bravely dares to wait! 


IX 


Full morning found them, and the 
land 
Received them, and the chapel gray; 
Some Indian huts on either hand, 
A smell of pine, a flash of spray,— 


ith Love to Dou and Pours 


White, frozen rivers of the sky 
Far up the glacial steeps hard by. 
Far ice-peaks flashed with sudden 
light, 
As if they would illume the rite, 
As if they knew his story well, 
As if they knew that form, that face, ' 
And all that Time could tell. 


x 


4 
They passed dusk chieftains two by © 
- 


two, 
With totem gods and stroud and shell 
They slowly passed, and passing — 
through, : 
He bought of all—he knew them © 
well. | 
And one, a bent old man and blind, © 
He put his hands about, and kind : 


And strange words whispered in his 

ear, 3 
So soft, his dull soul could but hear. 
And hear he surely did, for he, 
With full hands, lifted up his face 
And smiled right pleasantly. 


How near, how far, how fierce, how 

tame! 
The polar bear, the olive branch; i 
The dying exile, Christ’s sweet name— 
Vast silence! then the avalanche! ‘ 
How much thislittle church to them— 
Alaska and Jerusalem! 
The pair passed in, the silent pair 
Fell down before the altar there, | 
The Greek before the gray Greek — 

Cross, ; 
And Phaon at her side at last, 
For all her weary loss. 


With Bove to Dou and Wours 


The bearded priest came, and he 
laid 
His two hands forth and slowly spake 
Strange, solemn words, and slowly 
prayed, 
And blessed them there, for Jesus’ 
sake. 
Then slowly they arose and passed, 
Still silent, voiceless to the last. 
They passed: her eyes were to his 
eyes, 
But his were lifted to the skies, 
‘As looking, looking, that lorn night, 
Before the birth of God’s first-born 
As praying still for Lig?t. 


XI 


So Phaon knew and Sappho knew 
Nor night nor sadness any more... . 
How new the old world, ever new, 
When white Love walks the shining 


shore! 

They found their long-lost Eden, 
found 

Her old, sweet songs; such dulcet 
sound 


Of harmonies as soothe the ear 
When Love and only Love can hear. 
They found lost Eden; lilies lay 
Along their path, whichever land 
They journeyd from that day. 


XII 


They never died. Great loves live 
on. 
You need not die and dare the skies 
In forms that poor creeds hinge upon 
To pass the gates of Paradise. 
I know not if that sword of flame 


563 


Still lights the North, and leads the 
same 

As when he passed the gates of old. 

I know not if they braved the bold, 

Defiant walls that fronted them 

Where awful Saint Elias broods, 

Wrapped in God’s garment-hem. 


I only know they found the lost, 
The long-lost Eden, found all fair 
Where naught had been but hail and 
frost; 

As Love finds Eden anywhere. 

And wouldst thou, too, live on andon? 

Then walk with Nature till the dawn. 

Aye, make thy soul worth saving— 
save 

Thy soul from darkness and the 
grave. 

Love God not overmuch, but love 

God’s world which He called very 
good; 

Then lo, Love’s white sea-dove! 


XIII 


I know not where lies Eden-land; 
I only know ’t is like unto 
God’s kingdom, ever right at hand— 
Ever right here in reach of you. 
Put forth thy hand, or great or small, 
In storm or sun, by sea or wood, 
And say, as God hath said of all, 
Behold, it all is very good. 
I know not where lies Eden-land; 
I only say receive the dove: 
I say put forth thy hand. 


54 


Adios 


ADIOS 


And here, sweet friend, I go my way 

Alone, _as I have lived, alone 

A little way, a a brief half day, 

And then, the restful, white milestone. 

I know not surely where or when, 

Bui surely know we meet again, 

As surely know we love anew 

In grander life the good and true. 

But why assume to guide or guess? 

Behold our stars are shepherded! 
Madonna, Shepherdess. 

Enough to know that I and you 

Shall breathe together there as here 

Some clearer, sweeter atmosphere: 

Shall walk high, wider ways above 

Our petty selves, shall lean to lead 

Man up and up in thought and deed. . 

Dear soul, sweet friend, I love you, ae 

The love that led you patient through 

This wilderness of words in quest 

Of strange wild flowers from my West, 

But here, dear heart, Adieu. 


I 


Yon great chained sea-ship chafes to 
be 

Once more unleashed without the Gate 

On proud Balboa’s boundless sea, 

And I chafe with her, for I hate 

The rust of rest, the dull repose, 

The fawning breath of changeful foes, 

Whose blame through all my bitter 
days 

I have endured; spare me their praise! 

I go, full hearted, grateful, glad 

Of strength from dear good mother 
earth; 

And yet am I full sad. 


IT 


Could I but teach man to believe— 
Could I but make small men to grow, 
To break frail spider-webs that weave 
About their thews and bind them low; 
Could I but sing one song and slay 
Grim Doubt; I then could go my way 
In tranquil silence, glad, serene, 

And satisfied, from off the scene. 
But ah, this disbelief, this doubt, 


This doubt of God, this doubt of 


good,— 
The damned spot will not out! 


III 


Y Grew once a rose within my room 
Of perfect hue, of perfect health; 
Of such perfection and perfume, 

It filled my poor house with its wealth. 
Then came the pessimist who knew — 
Not good or grace, but overthrew 
My rose, and in the broken pot 
Nosed fast for slugs within the rot. 
He found, found with exulting pride, 
A baby butterfly it was; 

The while my rose-tree died. 


IV 


Yea, he did hurt me. Joy in this, 
Receive great joy at last to know, 
Since pain is all your world of bliss, 


That ye did, hounding, hurt me } 


so! 


Adios 


But mute as bayed stag on his steeps, 

Who keeps his haunts, and, bleeding, 
keeps 

His breast turned, watching where 
they come, 

Kept I, defiant, and as dumb. 

But comfort ye; your work was done 

With devils’ cunning, like the mole 

That lets the life-sap run. 


as my revenge? My vengeance 


The fairer; that I pea ts 

While envy, hate, and falsehood 
shot 

Rank poison; that I leave to those 

Who shot, for arrows, each a rose; 

Aye, labyrinths of rose and wold, : 

Acacias garmented in gold, 

Bright fountains, where birds come 
to drink; 

Such clouds of cunning pretty birds, 

And tame as you can think. 


V 


Come here when I am far away 
Fond lovers of this lovely land, 
And sit quite still and do not say, 
Turn right or left, or lift a hand, 
| But sit beneath my kindly trees 
And gaze far out yon sea of seas:— 
‘These trees, these very stones, could 
< tell 
How long I loved them, and how 

well— 

And maybe I shall come and sit 
Beside you; sit so silently 
You will not reck of it. 


505 
vI 


The old desire of far, new lands, 

The thirst to learn, to still front 
storms, 

To bend my knees, to lift my hands 

To God in all His thousand forms— 

These lure and lead as pleasantly 

As old songs sung anew at sea. 

But, storied lands or stormy deeps, 

I will my ashes to my steeps— 

I will my steeps, green cross, 
rose, 


red 


To those who love the beautiful— 


Come, learn to be of those. 


VII 


The sun has draped his couch in 
+ red; 
Night takes the warm world in his 
arms 
And turns to their espousal bed 
To breathe the perfume ofhercharms: 
The great sea calls, and I descend 
As to the call of some strong friend. 
I go, not hating any man, 
But loving Earth as only can 
A lover suckled at her breast 
Of beauty from his babyhood, 
And roam to truly rest. 


Vill 


God is not far; man is not far 
From Heaven’s porch, where pans 
roll. 


566 


Man yet shall speak from star to star 

In silent language of the soul; 

Yon star-strewn skies be but a town, 

With angels passing up and down. 

“T leave my peace with you.’’ Lo! 
these 


Adios 


His seven wounds, the Pleiades 
Pierce Heaven’s porch. But, resting | 
there, | 
The new moon rocks the Child Christ | 
in . | 
Her silver _Tocking- chair. 


AEB SO aie aad 


NOTES 


567 


F 


NOTES 


(Notes by Miller are marked M.. The Bear Edition is referred to as B. 


Obvious typographical errors are silently corrected, but Miller’s grammar 


has not been altered.) 


From Joaquin, Et AL. 


In B. I, 174, Miller says that Joaquin, Et Al. was first published in 1868: 
but the title-page and copyright are dated 1 869. 

“Ts It Worth While? ’’—Preserved in part, as “Down into the Dust’”’ in 
Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, and reprinted in part, in B., I, 172, with the 
original title but revised and with this comment: ‘I give the following place 

. not only because it is right in spirit but because it shows how old, how 
very old I was as a boy, and sad at heart over the cruelties of man to man.” 

“7 anara.’’—An altered version appears as “Sleep that was not sleep’’ in 
Songs of the Sun-Lands, but not in B. 

“Dirge.”—For the much altered version in Songs of the Sun-Lands and in 
B., see “‘ Dead in the Sierras.”’ 

‘‘Ultime.’’—Five stanzas are preserved in B., I, 174. 


SoNGS OF THE SIERRAS 


“To Maud.”— My Little Daughter in Oregon.” In B., this dedication 
follows ‘The Arizonian.”’ 

All the poems of this section are in the edition of 1871 but they are here 
printed according to the text and order of B., except the dedication, which in 
1871 preceded “ Arizonian’”’ at the beginning of the book. 

“Walker in Nicaragua.’’—“ General William Walker, citizen, soldier, presi- 
dent and historian of Nicaragua, was born in Nashville, Tennessee, in 1824, 
of Scotch ancestry, and educated at a university in Paris, after which he 


-- studied international law in London. He voyaged to California in 1850 and, 


“after some experience in the gold mines and gathering many bold men about 


him he became editor of the San Francisco Herald and began to publish his 
plans to his followers. He made two bold attempts to establish a settlement in 
Baja California, but was twice driven out by the Mexicans. Returning to 
California he raised a company and sailed for Nicaragua. War had been raging 
there for a long time between the aristocrats, or Church party, of Granada, and. 


569 


570 Notes 


the Democrats of Leon, to the North. Americans as well as British were fight- 
ing on both sides. 


“After fearful fighting at Granada, Walker, shut up in Rivas, surrendered to 
the United States and was taken to New Orleans for trial, his men going whither 
they would or could. 

‘‘He now published an elaborate book, giving the wealth and wonderful re- 
sources of the country and at the same time, giving every detail of the war, 
under the title of ‘‘The War in Nicaragua.” It is written in the third person, 
like the books of the first Cesar, and is as conservative and exact as an 
equation. 

‘He was tried in New Orleans and, on his vindication, raised in that city 
and Mobile a force far exceeding that with which he had left California and 


with which he had fought his way to the presidency; but his Californians were 


dead or scattered and these untried men of enervating cities knew little of arms 
and were, comparatively, worthless. 

“Walker’s last expedition was closely watched by British gunboats. He took 
refuge up a river on the coast of Honduras and soon found himself cut off on 
allsides. Heled his men up the coast and down, facing fifty to one, as at Rivas 
and Granada, but they soon became disheartened and he surrendered to the 
captain of a British man-of-war, who at once turned him over to Honduras, 
when he was promptly tried at the drum’s head, condemned and shot.”—M. 


In the first edition, the poem opened at what is now the ninth division, 
as follows: 


He was a brick: let this be said 
Above my brave, dishonored dead. 


The eight divisions which now open the poem were obviously added in 
an attempt to “ whitewash ” Walker and to square the record with Miller’s 
later “‘ pacifistic ’ professions. 


“The Tale of the Alcalde.’’—“ Twice revised and published before its first 


appearance in London, and has been cut and revised at least half a dozen times 
since; and is still incomplete and very unsatisfying to the writer, except as to 
the descriptions. It was my first attempt at telling a story in verse, that was 
thought worth preserving. It was begun when but a lad, camped with our 
horses for a month’s rest in an old adobe ruin on the Reading Ranch, with the 
gleaming snows of Mount Shasta standing out above the clouds against the 
cold, blue north. The story is not new, having been written or at least lived 


Notes 571 


in every mountain land of intermixed races that has been: a young outlaw in 
love with a wild mountain beauty, his battles for her people against his own; 
the capture, prison, brave release, flight, return, and revenge—a sort of modi- 
fied ‘Mazeppa.’—M. In Joaguin, Et Al. this poem was called ‘‘ Benoni’; 
it was one of the chief sources of Joaquin Miller’s “legend.” 

“ Arizonian.’’—At its first appearance spelled ‘‘Arazonian.”’ 

“The Last Taschastas.’”’—‘‘ Te’hastas’ a name given to King John by the 
French, a corruption of chaste; for he was a pure, just man and a great war- 
rior. He was the king of the Rouge (Red) River Indians of Oregon, and his 
story is glorious with great deeds in defense of his people. When finally over- 
powered, he and his son Moses were put on a ship at Port Orford and sent to 
Fort Alcatraz in the Golden Gate. In mid-ocean, these two Indians, in irons, 
rose up, and, after a bloody fight, took the ship. But one had lost a leg, the 
other an arm, and so they finally had to let loose the crew and soldiers tumbled 
into the hold, and surrender themselves again; for the ship was driving helpless 
inastorm towardstherocks. Theking died a prisoner, but his son escaped and 
never again surrendered. He lives alone near Yreka and is known as ‘Prince 
Peg-leg Moses.’ A daughter of the late Senator Nesmith sends me a picture, 
taken in 1896 of the king’s devoted daughter, Princess Mary, who followed his 
fortunes in all his battles. She must be nearly one hundred years old. I 
remember her as an old woman full forty years ago, tall as a soldier, and most 
terrible in council. I have tried to picture her and her people as I once saw 
them in a midnight camp before the breaking out of the war; also their actions 
and utterances, so like some of the old Israelite councils and prophecies. This 
was the leading piece in my very first book, “ Specimens,” published in Oregon 
in 1867-8 if I remember rightly.” —M. 

“Joaquin Murietta—Called “Joaquin” in the Portland book and ‘“‘Cali- 
fornia’”’ in Songs of the Sierras, 1871. 

“Byen So.”—This poetical treatment of Miller’s relations with ‘‘ Minnie 
Myrtle” was much worked over after 1871. In the prelude, the original last 
line is better than the revised form— 


“White storms are in the feathered Or 


“Myrrh.”—In Songs of the Sterras, 1871, dated, ‘‘ Blue Mountains, Oregon, 
1870.” 

“Burns.’”’—Originally, this and the following poem appeared as ‘‘ Burns and 
Byron.” “In my pilgrimage to places sacred to the memory of Burns, I found 
none equal in interest to Ayr, the Doon, and their environs.’’—M. 

“Byron.”—" The day before my departure for Europe last summer, a small 
party sailed out to the beautiful sea-front of Saucélito, lying in the great bay of 


572 RNotes 


San Francisco, forever green in its crown of California laurel and there the 
fairest hands of the youngest and fairest city of the New World wove a wreath 
of bay for the tomb of Byron. I brought it over the Rocky Mountains, and the 
seas, and placed it above the dust of the soldier-poet, as desired.”—M, (Note 
in edition of 1871). 

“Kit Carson’s Ride.”—"“Two of the Archbishop’s [Trench’s] beautiful 
daughters had been riding in the park with the Earl of Aberdeen, ‘And did you 
gallop?’ asked Browning of the younger beauty. ‘I galloped, Joyce galloped, 
we galloped allthree.’ Then weall laughed at the happy and hearty retort, and 
Browning, beating the time and clang of galloping horses’ feet on the table with 
his fingers, repeated the exact measure in Latin from Virgil; and the Archbishop 
laughingly took it up, in Latin, where he left off. I then told Browning I had 
an order—it was my first—for a poem from the Oxford Magazine,and would 


like to borrow the measure and spirit of his ‘Good News’ for a prairie fire 


on the plains, driving buffalo and all other life before it into the river.”—M., 
In his note (in B.), Miller says this poem “was not in any of my first four 
books, and so has not been rightly revised till now.” This is apparently a 
slip; for it is in the American edition of Songs of the Sierras, 1871, though it 
is there much longer, and the girl sinks in the fire. Something of colloquial 
vigor has been lost in the revision. Compare the original opening line: 


“Run? Now you bet you; I rather guess so!” 


FALLEN LEAVES 


This series appeared in Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, but Miller discarded 
the group, preserving only (in B.) “‘Thomasof T igre,”’ ‘“ Yosemite” (originally 
‘In the Yosemite), and ‘‘ Dead in the Sierras.’’ 


“Thomas of Tigre.””—‘This was a brave old boyhood friend in the Mount 
Shasta days. You will find him there as the Prince in my Life Among the 
Modocs. . . . This man, Prince Thomas, now of Leon, Nicaragua, was a 


great favorite and my best friend, in one sense for years in Europe. He had 


passed the most adventurous life conceivable, at one time having been king of 
_an island.’’—M., 


The edition of 1873 has a fifth stanza as follows: 


“Answer me from out the West. 
I am weary, stricken now: 
Thou art strong and I would rest: 
Reach a hand with lifted brow,— 
King of Tigre, where art thou?” 


c = 4 —_ Nan Pe he gE Pa I wi — Petal, 
Peay = yee mae FT Neo es ne ee On ee Ee eee ee eS Te ee — 
a a een lin ane ae Sta 


Hotes 573 


“Dead in the Sierras.’’—Originally “Dirge,’”’ see p. 54. 

“A Memory of Santa Barbara.’’—Not included in the English edition of 
1873. Inits place, the English edition has an inferior eleven-line piece entitled 
“Lo, Here,” beginning, ‘I think ’twere better books were nots”? 


By THE SuN-DoWN SEAS 


“By the Sun-Down Seas.”—This was originally a continuous Oregonian 
poem, under the same title, opening the volume Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, 
which was dedicated to the Rossettis. Miller broke it up into its constituent 
parts, as here printed, and appended them (in B) to Songs of the Sierras, except 
for two fragments, ‘‘St. Paul’s’’ and ‘‘ Westminster Abbey,’’ which he inserted 
in his section of ‘‘ Miscellaneous Lines.” See now pp. 409 and 410. 

“Ovye-Agua: Oregon.”—“In 1858, while teaching a sort of primer school, 
below Fort Vancouver, during a vacation at Columbia College, the forerunner 
of Oregon University, I met Father Broulette, the head of the Catholic School 
at Vancouver. This learned and kindly priest helped me in my Latin, when I 
went to him on Saturdays, and twice took me rowing in an Indian’s canoe far 
up the great Oregon River to hear the waters; to hear the waters dashing down 
out of the clouds from the melting snows of Mt. Hood. And he quoted Bryant’s 
poem and laid great stress on the words: ‘Where rolls the Oregon and hears 
no sound save its own dashing.’ ’’—M. 

“To Rest at Last.”—‘‘ These final verses are peculiarly descriptive of the 
home I have built here on the Hights for my declining years; although | 
written and published in London . . . in 1873. . . . The only departure 
from my dear first plan is in finding my ideal home by the glorious gate of San 
Francisco instead of the somber fir-set sea bank far to the north, ‘Where Rolls 
the Oregon.’”’—M. 


SONGS OF THE SUN-LANDS 


“Songs of the Sun-Lands.’’—The volume thus entitled in B. includes the fol- 
lowing poems; “The Sea of Fire,” ‘‘The Ship in the Desert,’’ ‘‘Isles of the 
Amazons,” ‘An Indian Summer,” ‘‘ From Sea to Sea,” ‘‘A Song of the South,” 
- “Resurgo San Francisco,’’ and a notice in prose of ‘‘The Last San Francisco 
Fire.” The original ‘Songs of the Sun-Lands,” 1873, contained only three of 
the foregoing poems: ‘Isles of the Amazons,”’ “‘ From Sea to Sea,” and ‘‘In the 
Indian Summer,” the rest of the volume being made up of three sequences: 
By the Sun-Down Seas, Olive Leaves, and Fallen Leaves. From the present 
section I have removed the two pieces on San Francisco; and have added 
“ Dawn in San Diego,” as in its present form a late poem and more in harmony 


574. Sotes 


with the style and mood of this group than with Songs of the Sierras, to which — 
Miller appended it in B. I have also restored “Isles of the Amazons” to its — 
leading place, and have tried to arrange the other pieces in chronological order. — 

‘Isles of the Amazons.”—‘'T do not like this, although I have cut it up and © 


cut it down, and worked it over and over more than anything else. I had seen 
this vast and indescribable country, but not absorbed it; and that, most likely, 


is the reason it seems artificial and foolish, with knights and other things that 7 


I know nothing about. The only thing that I like in it is the water. I can 
handle water, and water is water the world over. But had it not been for the 
water and some of the wild tangles and jungles the whole thing would, ere this, 
have gone where the biggest half went long since. It was written in San 


Francisco, and was published at the same time in the Overland there and ~ 


the Genileman's Magazéne in London. . It was written at the instance of the 
Emperor, who translated it and to the last was brave and courtly enough to 
insist that it was good work. I had hoped to induce people to pour out of 
crowded London and better their fortunes there; for there is great wealth 


far, far up the Amazon. Aye, what exultant pride swelled my heart one | 


happy day in Rome when Partridge, our minister to Brazil, gave me that 
message of thanks from the good Emperor, with a request to make his home 
my own while he lived.”—M. 

“An Indian Summer.”—“‘I wrote, or rather lived, this bit of color at Cleve- 
land, Ohio, giving it the entire autumn of gold. The prime purpose was to get 
the atmosphere of an Ohio Saint Martin’s summer, but it grew to be a very 


serious matter. Yet we must, in some sort at least, live what we write if what 


we write is to live.’-—M. 

“From Sea to Sea.’’—‘‘ This was written during my first railroad ride from 
New York to San Francisco, at a time when this was the greatest ride on the 
globe and parties came to California in great crowds to look upon the sundown 
seas.’’—M. 

“The Ship in the Desert.’’—Miller’s note in B. gives the date of the first 
book publication of this poem as 1876; but the title-page gives 1875 and his 
dedicatory preface, which he quotes without the date, is dated in the original 
edition, 1874. ‘‘The body of this poem was first published in the Adlantic 
Monthly [July, 1874]. The purpose of it was the same as induced the Isles of 


the Amazons, but the work is better because more true and nearer to the — 


heart. Bear in mind it was done when the heart of the continent was indeed a 
desert, or at least a wilderness. . . . How much or how little it may have 
had to do in bringing Europe this way to seek for the lost Edens, and to 
make the desert blossom as the rose, matters nothing now; but, ‘He hath 
brought many captives home to Rome whose ransom did the generous (sic) 
coffers fill.’”-—M. 


Sone aN oe ey 


=. ter 


as) an 


Hotes 575 


“The Sea of Fire.”,—This poem was one of the two published as Songs of 
the Mexican Seas, Boston, 1887. But it had previously formed part of the long 
and unshapely verse romance, The Baroness of New York, 1877, which Miller 
consigned to oblivion. Inits original form it seems to have been associated with 
his revulsion against city life after his sojourn in the eastern cities. Hence his 
note in B.—‘‘ The real poet would rather house with a half savage and live ona 
sixpence in some mountain village, as did Byron, than feast off the board of 
Madame Leo Hunter ina city. Nor is Washington a better place for work with 
soul or heart in it. Madame Leo Hunter is there also, persistent, numerous, 
superficial, and soulless as in almost any great center. If I am cruel, O my 
coming poets, I am cruel to be kind. Go forth in the sun, away into the wilds 
or contentedly lay aside your aspirations of song. Now, mark you distinctly, 
I am not writing for poets of the Old World or the Atlantic seaboard. They 
have their work and their ways of work. My notes are for the songless Alaskas, 
Canadas, Californias, the Aztec lands and the Argentines that patiently await 
their coming prophets. For come they will; but I warn them they will have to 
gird themselves mightily and pass through fire, and perish, many a man; for 
these new worlds will be whistling, out of time, the tunes of the old, and the rich 
and the proud will say in their insolence and ignorance, ‘Pipe thus, for thus 
piped the famous pipers of old; piping of perished kings, of wars, of castle 
walls, of battling knights, and of maids betrayed. Sing as of old or be silent, for 
we know not, we want not, and we will not, your seas of colors, your forests 
of perfumes, your mountains of melodies.’’’—M. 

“A Song of the South.”—Entitled ‘‘The Rhyme of the Great River,” this 
was one of the two poems comprised in Songs of the Mexican Seas, 1887. It 
reappeared as the “‘ Song of the Soundless River”’ in Songs of the Soul, 1896. 

“Dawn at San Diego’’—Entitled ‘‘Sunset and Dawn in San Diego,” this 
was the second poem in Songs of the Soul, 1896. 


SoNGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN 


Songs of the Hebrew Children.—The poems in this section are given as in 

the fourth volume of B., except that ‘‘The Last Supper”’ is recovered from a 

miscellaneous section in the first volume, entitled ‘‘Lines that Papa Liked.” 

The entire sequence appeared as Olive Leaves in Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, 

except ‘‘La Notte,” ‘‘To Russia,” and ‘‘To Rachel in Russia,”” which seem to 
have appeared first in book form in, In Classic Shades, Chicago, 1890. The 

group is obviously related in theme and spirit to the poems in The Buslding of 

the City Beautiful; but the Olive Leaves sequence is much more strongly marked 

by the influence of Swinburne and reflects the poet’s first contacts with the 

- London poets and with Palestine. In a note in B., IV, 77, Miller speaks of 


576 Hotes 


writing and publishing an American edition of “Olive Leaves” in Easton, Pa., 


where he was attending his dying brother in 1871. At this time he had been 


contemplating a poetical life of Christ, but “had begun to see that the measure 
was monotonous.”’ 


Soncs oF ITALY 


“Songs of Italy.”"—The book with this title was published in Boston, 1878. 
The series is here given asin B. Most of the poems presumably reflect expe- 
rience in Italy previous to 1876. An elaborate romantic commentary on this 
period is available in his prose romance, The One Fair Woman, 1876. 

“The Ideal and the Real.’-—From Miller’s “‘allegorical’’ introduction to 
Mae Madden, 1876, a novel of Italy by Mary Murdock Mason; the poem is 
dated, 1875. 

“Vale! America.”—“T do not like this bit of impatience, nor do I expect 
any one else to like it and only preserve it here as a sort of landmark or journal 
in my journey through life. It is only an example of almost an entire book, 
written in Italy. I had, after a long struggle with myself, settled down in 
Italy to remain, as I believed, and as you can see was very miserable, and 
wrote according'y.’’—M. 

The poem “ Poveris! Poveris!” is omitted from this section as it appears 
with the title ‘‘ Feed My Sheep” in The Building of the City Beautiful. 


From, SHADOWS OF SHASTA 


Shadows of Shasta, a prose tale, was published in Chicago, 1881. ‘Why 


this book? Because last year, in the heart of the Sierras, I saw women and 


children chained together and marched down from their cool, healthy homes 
to degradation and death on the Reservation.’”—M. In a characteristic 
chapter, ‘The Escape,’ an Indian girl on the Reservation is rescued by 
‘fold Forty-Nine” and carried off on horseback in a wild ride into the Sierras. 


Loc CABIN LINES 


‘In the early eighties I built a log cabin in the edge of Washington, to be - : 


more in touch with both sides of the Civil War as well as with the smaller re- 
publics. And then many noble people who had been ruined in the South were 
ill content to live in log cabins, as their slaves had lived. I wanted to teach 
that a log cabin can be made very comfortable, with content at hand.’’—M. 
Only the first four poems were included by Miller under this title in B. 


Notes 577 


The others here printed were, though scattered through B.,marked by external 
or internal evidence as belonging to the same group. All but ‘“Washington 
by the Delaware’ and “The Bravest Battle” appeared in the volume of 1890, 
In Classic Shades. 

“The Lost Regiment.”—‘‘In a pretty little village of Louisiana destroyed 
by shells toward the end of the war, ona bayou back from the river, a great 
number of very old men had been left. by their sons and grandsons, while they 
went to the war. And these old men, many of them veterans of others wars, 
formed themselves into a regiment, made for themselves uniforms, picked up 
old flintlock guns, even mounted a rusty old cannon, and so prepared to go to 
battle if ever the war came within their reach. Toward the close of the war 
some gunboats came down the river shelling the shore. The old men heard the 
firing, and, gathering together, they set out with their old muskets and rusty 
old cannon to try to reach the river over the corduroy road through the cypress 
swamp. They marched out right merrily that hot day, shouting and bantering 
to encourage each other, the dim fires of their old eyes burning with desire of 
battle, although not one of them was young enough to stand erect. And they 
never came back any more. The shells from the gunboats set the dense and 
sultry woods on fire. The old men were shut in by the flames-—the gray 
beards and the gray moss and the gray smoke together.’’—M. 

‘The Poem by the Potomac.’’—‘‘ The thing, however of the most singular 
interest here [at Mount Vernon] is a key of the Bastile, presented by Thomas 
Paine to Lafayette.’—M. [Lafayette sent the key by Paine to Washington.] 

“The Bravest Battle.”—‘‘A few years ago, when living in my log cabin, 
Washington, some ladies came to inform me that I had been chosen to write a 
poem for the unveiling of an equestrian statue of a hero,the hero of ‘the brav- 
est battles that ever were fought.’ 

“When they had delivered their message I told them that the beautiful city 
was being disfigured by these pitiful monuments to strife, not one in forty 
being fit works of art, and that I hoped and believed that the last one of these 
would be condemned to the scrap heap within the next century. I reminded 
them that while nearly every city in the Union had more or less of these mon- 
strosities I had seen but one little figure in honor of woman; that of a crude bit 
of granite to the memory of a humble baker woman in a back street of New 
- Orleans, who gave away bread to the poor. I finally told them, however, that 
if they would come back next morning I would have a few lines about ‘The 
bravest battles that ever were fought.’ 

“One of them came, got the few lines, but they were not read at the unveil- 
ing. However, they were read later in New York, by a New Orleans lady, of 
noble French extraction, the Baroness de Bazus, and they have since been read 
many times, in many lands, and, I am told, in many languages.” —M. 


37 


578 Rotes 


THE ULTIMATE WEST 


To this group as arranged by Miller, I have added nothing not contained in 
B, but have included half a dozen pieces from his “‘miscellaneous’’ group and 
from his unorganized first volume: ‘To Juanita,’ ‘‘ California’s Resurrection,” 
“Pleasant to the Sight,” ‘The Trees,” “A Hard Row for Stumps,”’ ‘‘Co- 
manche,” “The American Ocean,” and “California’s Cup of Gold.” “Yo- 
semite”’ and “‘ Dead in the Sierras” are now shifted from this group to their 
original position in Fallen Leaves. In Classic Shades contains a dozen of the 
poems in this section. 

“Old Gib at Castle Rocks.”—Reuben P. Gibson, a pioneer judge, led a 
company at the battle of Castle Rocks, in June, 1855, when Miller received an 
arrow wound in the neck. 

‘‘49.”—“ This poem is taken from ‘49, or the Gold Seekers’ by permission of 
Funk and Wagnalls. . . . The words have been set to music and selected 
as The Song of the Native Sons of California. It was sung in Mining Camps 
long before it was in print.”—M. 

‘San Diego.”—The preceding lines from Keats’s ‘‘ Ode to aN ightingale ”’ 
were apparently quoted from memory. They should read: 


“O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene.” 


“The Fourth’ in Oregon.”—“ This poem was read, 1896, near the scene of 
the Whitman massacre at the old Mission.”” M. In honor of Marcus P. 
Whitman, founder of Whitman College. 

“An Answer.’’—In the American edition of Songs of the Sun-Lands, this 
poem was originally printed as the prelude to ‘Isles of the Amazons,” and 
contained four additional stanzas. 


From, THE BUILDING oF THE City BEAUTIFUL 


The Utopian romance from which these poems were taken was published 
in Chicago in 1893. It contains some interesting chapters on the settlement of 
The Hights. Miller reprinted only three of the poems in this section: ‘In 
the Sweat of Thy Face (At Mary’s Fountain)”; ‘To Save a Soul”; and “The 
Voice of the Dove.’’ 

‘In the Sweat of Thy Face.’—This poem appears, detached from the 
sequence, in B., with the title “At Mary’s Fountain, Nazareth.” The text 
of B. is followed here, as it contains obvious improvements, 

‘The Voice of the Dove.”—This poem is here printed from the text of 


tht Sant a Va i at, gp nab ap 


Spotes 579 


B., where it appears under Lines that Papa Liked. In the book, The Butld- 
ing of the City Beautiful, only the first two stanzas appear. 


ENGLISH THEMES 


This group I have composed by bringing together related poems, all of 
which appear in B. 

“St Paul’s” and ‘Westminster Abbey”’ were originally parts of “By the 
Sun-Down Seas,” 1873. 

“At Byron’s Tomb.”’—This poem alludes to Miller’s first visit to the tomb 
of Byron but was apparently written several years later. 

“Dead in the Long, Strong Grass.”—In memory of Prince Napoleon, a 
friend of the hunting field in England, who died while fighting with the English 
troops in the Zulu war. 

“The Passing of Tennyson.’’—Included in Songs of the Soul, 1896. 

“Mother Egypt.’’—Included in Songs of the Soul. Dedicated ‘‘to England 
on her invasion of North Africa,’’ this was one of nine poems in Chants for the 
Boer, a pamphlet of 28 pages published in San Francisco, 1900. Miller took at 
this time a high ‘‘moral’’ tone and attitude towards the question of an Anglo- 
Saxon alliance, maintaining that there could be none, “until this crime against . 
the Boer is forgotten, as well as Bunker Hill and the Fourth of July.” 

. Boston to the Boers.’’-—From Chants for the Boer. 


More SONGS FROM THE HIGHTS 


This group I have made by bringing together short poems of related mood, 
which were scattered through the first, fourth, and fifth volumes of B., mainly 
under ‘‘ Miscellaneous Lines’’ and “‘ Lines that Papa Liked.” 

“Good Buddha Said, Be Clean, Be Clean.””—“ What is the matter with 
China, the mightiest and in some ways, such as reverence for parents and re- 
spect for old age, the most civilized power that ever had place on the pages of 
history? Why, China never adored beauty. China set up and keeps in her 
temples a monstrous, hideous Joss, and until the day that her hideous Joss is 
thrown down will she, too, be deservedly hideous in the eyes of the world.” —M. 

“Death Is Delightful.”—This is a fragment detached from ‘‘ Myrrh” and 
included in B. among Miller’s favorite lines. 


MISCELLANEOUS LINES 


“The Missouri.”’”—"‘The Missouri’ has a right to exist, as it stirred the 
waters from ‘The Shining Mountains’ to the Gulf of Mexico, and taught the 
nation to no longer disdain, ‘The Father of Waters.’’’—M. 


580 Hotes 


‘‘Peter Cooper.’’—“ The world did not want all I had to say of this gentle 
old man and kept only the three little verses.” —M. ' 

“Light of the Southern Cross.’’—Title from a manuscript copy supplied 
by Mrs. Miller. In pamphlet form it is entitled: ‘‘Panama, Union of the 
Oceans.”’ 


SEMI-HuMOoROUS SONGS 


‘The dower of song is, to my mind, a sacred gift. The prophet and the seer 
should rise above the levities of this life. And so it is that I make humble 
apology for now gathering up from recitation booksthese next half dozen pieces. 
The only excuse for doing it is their refusal to die; even under the mutilations 
of the compilers of ‘choice selections.’’’—M. 


SONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS 


“Columbus.”—This poem is printed in B. under the caption ‘Later Lines 
Preferred by London.” It was included in Songs of the Soul, 1896. ‘The Lon- 
don Atheneum (sic), years after the royal reception given my first books, pro- 
nounced this the best American poem. Let me say to my following it is far 
from that; even I have done better; too much like a chorus. ‘The Passing of 
Tennyson’ is better. ‘The Missouri’ better still.’”-—M. 

‘‘A Song of Creation.’’—The greater part of thispoemappeared ina 99-page 
pamphlet called As it Was in the Beginning, published in San Francisco in 
1903. It wasrevised and published as Lightin Boston, in 1907, with illustrative 


scenes from California, Alaska, Japan, and Hawaii as headings for the four — 


books. 


“With Love to You and Yours.”—A revision of ‘Sappho and Phaon,” the | 


first poem in Songs of the Soul, 1896. 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


A beautiful stream is the River of Rest, 427 
A blazing home, a blood-soaked hearth, 377 
A fig for her story of shame and of pride! 435 
Against our golden orient dawns, 383 
Ahme! I mind melong agone, 428 

A land that man has newly trod, 349 

‘* All honor to him who shall win the prize,’’ 


426 
Aloha! Wahwah! Quelle raison? 468 
Alone and sad I sat me down, 455 
Alone on this desolate border, 49 
A mornin Oregon! The kindled camp, 173 
And full these truths eternal, 313 
And here, sweet friend, I go my way, 564 
And oh, the voices I have heard! 419 
And they came to Him, mothers of Judah, 


30 

Aud this then is all of the sweet life she 
promised! 50 

And what for the man who went forth for 
the right, 404 

And where lies Usland, Land of Us? 466 

And who the bravest of the brave, 405 

And yet again through the watery miles, 


343 
reeg you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 447 
Asa tale that is told, as a vision, 308 
A sinking sun, a sky of red, 157 
A storm burst forth! From out the storm, 


5 
A ae half told and hardly understood, 166 
A wild, wide land of mysteries, 216 
Aye, the world is a better old world today! 


419 


Because the skies were blue, because, 61 
‘““Be clean, be clean!’’ Gautama cried, 421 
Behind him lay the gray Azores, 475 
Behold how glorious! Behold, 421 

Behold the silvered mists that rise, 403 
Behold the tree, the lordly tree, 366 

Be thou not angered. Gothy way, 397 


City at sea, thou art surely an ark, 341 

Come, lean an ear, an earnest ear, 397 

Come, let us ponder; it is fit, 393, 

- Come, listen O Love to the voice of the 
dove, 405 

Comes a cry from Cuban water, 444 

Come to my sunland! Come with me, 104 


Dark-browed, she broods with weary lids, 
13 : 
Dead! stark dead in the long, strong grass! 
412 
Dear Bethlehem, the proud repose, 393 


581 


Death is delightful. Déath is dawn, 427 
Dove-borne symbol, olive bough, 356 


Eld Druid oaks of Ayr, 146 
Emerald, emerald, emerald Land, 381 
Espousal of the vast, void seas, 448 


For glory? For good? For fortune, or for 
fame? 422 

‘For the Right! as God has given,’’ 350 

From out the golden doors of dawn, 400 

From out the vast, wide bosomed West, 441 

From Shasta town to Redding town, 368 

Frosts of an hour! Fruits of a season! 160 


Glintings of day in the darkness, 120 


Hail, fat king Ned! 441 

Hail, Independence of old ways! 387 

Hear ye this parable. A man, 393 

He died at dawn in the land of snows, 413 

Her hands were clasped downward and 
doubled, 306 

He walked the world with bended head, 104 

His broad-brimm’d hat push’d back with 
careless air, 172 ; 

His eyes are dim, he gropes his way, 375 

His footprints have failed us, 15 

Honor and glory forever more, 440 

How sad that all great things are sad, 422 

“How shall man surely save his soul?’’ 399 

How swift this sand, gold-laden, runs! 379 

Huge silver snow-peaks, white as wool, 462 


“‘T am an Ussian true,’’ he said, 466 

I am as one unlearned, uncouth, 50 

Ice built, ice bound and ice bounded, 382 

I do recall some sad days spent, 339 

I dream’d, O Queen, of you, last night, 437 
If earth is an oyster, love is the pearl, 157 

I have a world, a world which is all my own, 


52 

T heard a tale long, long ago, 373 

In a land so far that you wonder whether, 
245 

In Ws whom men condemn as ill, 147 

In the days when my mother, the Earth, 
was young, 425 

In the place where the grizzly reposes, 158 

I see above a crowded world a cross, 409 

I see her now—the fairest thing, 434 

Is it night? And sits night at your pillow? 


303 
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother, 47 
I stand upon the green Sierra’s wall, 168 
It seems to me a grandest thing, 420 


582 


I think the bees, the blessed bees, 403 
I think the birds in that far dawn, 394 


King of Tigre, comrade true, 155 


Let me rise and goforth. A far, dim spark 
333 

Life knows no dead so beautiful, 143 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world 
165 

Lo! here sit we by the sun-down seas, 213 

Lo! here sit we mid the sun-down seas, 158 

Look back, beyond the Syrian sand, 398 

Lo! on the plains of Bethel lay, 308 

Lorn land of silence, land of awe! 396 


> 


Man’s books are but man’s alphabet, 403 
Montara, Naples of my West! 378 

My brave world-builders of the West! 165 
My city sits amid her palms, 287 

My kingly kinsmen, kings of thought, 412 
My Mountains still are free! 363 

My own and my only Love some night, 359 


Night seems troubled and scarce asleep, 332 
No! It is not well, Zanara, 48 

*‘No, not so lonely now—I love,”’ 374 , 
No, sir; no turkey for me, sir, 464 


Oaks of the voiceless ages! 54 
O boy at peace upon the Delaware! 301 
O, heavens, the eloquent song of the silence! 


428 

Oh, for England’s old sea thunder! 410 

Oh, give me good mothers! Yea, great, 
glad mothers, 423 

Oh, it were better dying there, 386 

Oh, lion of the ample earth, 435 

Oh! she is very old. I lay, 414 

O Jebus! thou mother of prophets, 304 

O land of temples, land of tombs! 395 

O Master, here I bow before a shrine, AIO 

Once, morn by morn, when snowy moun- 
tains flamed, 172 

One night we touched the lily shore, 440 

Only a basket for fruits or bread, 345 

O perfect heroes of the earth, 386 

O star-built bridge, broad milky way! 304 

O terrible lion of tame Saint Mark! 323 

O, the mockery of pity! 350 

O thou Tomorrow! Mystery! 428 

O thou, whose patient, peaceful blood, 309 

O tranquil moon! O pitying moon! 350 

Paine! The Prison of France! 
360 

Primeval forests! virgin sod! 170 


Lafayette! 


Rhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow, 263 

Rise up! How brief this little day? 540 

Room! room to turn round in, to breathe 
and be free, 149 


Sad song of the wind in the mountains, 126 

Sail, sail yon skies of cobalt blue, 447 

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might 
come, 439 


Sndex of First Lines 


Saye Plato, ‘‘Once in Greece the gods, ° 

407 

See once these stately scenes, then roam no 
more, I70 

Shadows that shroud the tomorrow, 88 

Sierras, and eternal tents, 137 

Sing banners and cannon and roll of drum! 
423 

Some fragrant trees, 438 

Some fugitive lines that allure us no more, 


153 
Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome, 339 
Sound! sound! sound! 155 
Sowing the waves with a fiery Tain, 433 
Such musky smell of maiden night! 360 
Sword in hand he was slain, 439 


‘““Ten thousand miles of mobile sea,’’ 382 
Thatch of palm and a patch of clover, 155 
That man who lives for self alone, 61 

The Abbey broods beside the turbid 

Thames, 410 

The bravest battle that ever was fought, 361 
The bravest, manliest man is he, 476 

ne brave young city by the Balboa seas, 


363 
The broad magnolia’s blooms are white, 384 
The Day sat by with banner furled, 4or 
The dying land cried; they heard her death- 
call, 357 
The golden fleece is at our feet, 384 
The golden poppy is God’s gold, 383 
The gold that with the sunlight lies, 440 
The hail like cannon-shot struck the sea, 


342 

The hills were brown, the heavens were 
blue, 113 

The huge sea monster, the “ Merrimac,”’ 359 

The king of rivers has a dolorous shore, 434 

The lakes lay bright as bits of broken moon, 
330 

The monument, tipped with electric fire, 353 

The mountains from that fearful first, 349 

ay old stage-drivers of the brave old days! 
460 

The rain! 
366 

There were whimsical turns of the waters, 
305 

These famous waters smell like—well, 463 

‘‘ The silver cord loosed,’’ 54 

The snow was red with patriot blood, 360 

The stars are large as lilies! Morn, 384 

The sun lay molten in the sea, 401 

The Sword of Gideon, Sword of God, 416 

The tented field wore a wrinkled frown, 356 

The trees they lean’d in their love unto 
trees, 367 

The world it is wide; men go their Ways, 209 

The world lay as a dream of love, 469 

They called him Bill, the hired man, 458 

They tell me, ere the maple leaves grow 
brown once more, 55 

This tall, strong City stands today, 442 

Those brave old bricks of forty-nine! 385 

Those shining leaves that lisped and shook, 
400 


The rain! The generous rain! 


ee 


Pe ee ee 


Jrdex of First Lines 


Thou, mother of brave men, of nations! 
Thou, 409 

To lord all Godland! lift the brow, 349 

To those who have known my mad life’s 
troubles, 55 

'Twas night in Venice. Then down to the 
tide, a 

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast, 370 

Two noble brothers loved a fair, 456 


Unwalled it lies, and open as the sun, 442 


We dwelt in the woods of the Tippecanoe, 


43 

We have worked our claims, 380 

Well! who shall lay hand on my harp but 
me, 389 

We see trust the Conductor, most surely, 
42 

We part as ships on a pathless main, 159 

What if we all lay dead below, 404 

What shall be said of the sun-born Pueblo? 


380 
What shall be said of this soldier now dead? 


425 
What song is well sung not of sorrow? 305 


583 


What song sang the twelve with the Saviour, 
307 
What sound wasthat? A pheasant’s whir? 


395 
What wonder that I swore a prophet’s 
oath, 175 
Where now the brownie fisher-lad? 446 
Where ranged thy black-maned woolly 
bulls, 433 
Where San Diego seas are warm, 378 
Where the cocoa and cactus are neighbors, 


156 

With high face held to her ultimate star, 
424 

With incense and myrrh and sweet spices, 


303 
With the buckler and sword into battle, 160 
Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood? 300 
Why, know you not soul speaks to soul? 
405 


Yea, Santa Barbara is fair, 159 
Yes, 1am dreamer. Yet while you dream, 


419 

You ask for manliest, martial deeds? 367 

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate 
Isles, 42 


0 
You will come, my bird, Bonita, 365 


Nc AR ON al ah 
TATE 


ey 


rate 


ay mS 
iy ee pte 
‘ Ws 
yy 


a Ae 


**) 


1 
SRE RI , 


i 


bted hay te 


Ws ,, 


eae Sy 


eS pate anes 


Gt Reesplicey ih 


INDEX OF TITLES 


Adios, 564 

Africa, 414 

After the Battle, 423 

Alaska, 382 

American Ocean, The, 382 

And Oh, the Voices I Have Heard, 419 
Answer, An, 389 

Arbor Day, 383 

Arizonian, The, 104 

At Bethlehem, 303 

At Lord Byron’s Tomb, 410 

At Sea, 159 

Attila’s Throne, Torcello, 339 
Awaiting the Resurrection at Karnak, 396 


Battle Flag at Shenandoah, The, 356 

Beyond Jordan, 304 

Bits from Ina, a Drama, 126 

Blessed Bees, The, 403 

Boston to the Boers, 415 

Bravest Battle, The, 361 ‘ 

BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL, THE, 
1893, 391 

Burns, 146 

Byron, 147 

By the Balboa Seas, 384 

By the Lower Mississippi, 434 

By THE SuN-Down SEAS, 1873, 163 


California’s Christmas, 384 
California’s Cup of Gold, 383 
California’s Resurrection, 366 
Capucin of Rome, The, 345 
Charity, 306 

Chilkoot Pass, 447 

Christ in Egypt, The, 395 
Christmas by the Great River, 435 
Columbus, 475 

Comanche, 377 

Coming of Spring, The, 359 
Como, 330 

Cuba Libre, 444 

Custer, 386 


Dawn at San Diego, 287 

Day Sat by with Banner Furled, The, 401 
’ Dead Carpenter, A, 425 

Dead Czar, The, 445 

Dead in the Long, Strong Grass, 412 

Dead in the Sierras, 156 

Dead Millionaire, The, 440 

Death Is Delightful, 427 

Defense of the Alamo, The, 439 

Dirge, 54 : ; 

Don’t Stop at the Station Despair, 426 


Dove of St. Mark, A, 323 
Down the Mississippi at Night, 433 


England, 409 

ENGLISH THEMES, 407 
Even So, 137 

Exodus for Oregon, 166 


Faith, 305 

FALLEN LEAVES, 1873, 153 
Feed My Sheep, 393 

Finale, 428 

FirstLaw of God, The, 398 
For the Right, 350 

For Those Who Fail, 426 
Fortunate Isles, The, 420 
Ag." 380 

Foundation Stones, The, 397 
From Out the Golden Doors of Dawn, 400 
From Sea to Sea, 213 


Garfield, 441 
Gold That Grew by Shasta Town, The, 368 
Good Buddha Said ‘‘Be Clean, Be Clean,” 


421 
Great Emerald Land, The, 173 
Growing of a Soul, The, 393 


Hailstorm in Vertice, A, 342 

Hard Row for Stumps, A, 367 

He Loves and Rides Away, 435 

Heroes of America, The, 386 

Heroes of Oregon, The, 168 

Her Picture, 434 ; 

He Walked the World with Bended Head, 
401 

Hope, 305 

Horace Greeley’s Drive, 460 

How Beautiful Are the Feet, 394 

How Shall Man Surely Save His Soul? 399 


Ideal and the Real, The, 313 
In a Gondola, 344 

In Classic Shades, 455 
Indian Summer, An, 209 

In Exile, 49 

In Palestine, 304 

In San Francisco, 158 

In Southern California, 156 
In the Sweat of Thy Face, 395 
Is It Worth While? 47 

Isles of the Amazons, 179 


Joaquin Et AL, 1869, 45 
Joaquin Murietta, 120 


Kit Carson's Ride, 149 


Por re 


585, 


586 Index of Titles 


Land That Man Has Newly Trod, A, 349 
“La Notte,’’ 303 

Larger College, The, 378 

Last Supper, The, 307 


~e-Last Taschastas, The, 113 


Light of Christ’s Face, The, 421 
Light of the Southern Cross, 448 
Lincoln Park, 442 

Little Brown Man, The, 446 
Loc CaBIN LINEs, 351 

Lo! On the Plains of Bethel, 308 
Lost Regiment, The, 357 

Love in the Sierras, 374 

Love Song, A, 157 


Magnolia Blossoms, 384 

Man’s Books, 403 

Memory of Santa Barbara, A, 159 
Men of Forty-Nine, The, 385 
Merinda, 50 

MISCELLANEOUS LINES, 431 
Missouri; The, 433 

Montara, 378 

Montgomery at Quebec, 439 
MorE SONGS FROM THE HIGHTS, 417 
Mother Egypt, 413 

Mothers of Men, 423 

Mountains, The, 349 

Mount Shasta, 349 

Myrrh, 143 


Nepenthe, 52 
Newport News, 3590 
Nubian Face on the Nile, A, 440 


O Boy at Peace, 301 

Oh, for England’s Old Time Thunder! 410 
Old Gib at Castle Rocks, 375 

Olive, 356 

On the Firing Line, 422 

O, the Mockery of Pity, 350 

O Tranquil Moon, 350 

Our Heroes of Today, 424 

Oye-Agua: Oregon, 165 


Palm Leaves, 155 

Passing of Tennyson, The, 412 

Peter Cooper, 440 

Picture of a Bull, 172 

Pioneers to the Great Emerald Land, 381 
Pleasant to the Sight, 366 

Poem by the Potomac, The, 360 

Poet, The, 419 

Put Up Thy Sword, 405 


Queen of My Dreams, The, 437 
Question? 425 


Resurgo San Francisco, 442 
Riel, the Rebel, 413 

River of Rest, The, 427 
Rome, 339 


St. Paul’s, 400 
San Diego, 380 
Santa Maria: Torcello, 343 


Saratoga and the Psalmist, 463 
Says Plato, 467 


~Sea of Fire, The, 245 


SeMI-Humorous Songs, 453 
Sermon on the Mount, The, 394 
Shadows of Shasta, 158 

SHADOWS OF SHASTA, 1881, 347 
Shasta Tale of Love, A, 373 

Ship in the Desert, The, 216 
Sierra Grande del Norte, 165 
Sierras Adios, 160 

Sioux Chief’s Daughter, The, 370 
Soldiers’ Home, Washington. The, 353 
Song for Peace, A, 308 

Song of Creation, A, 476 

Song of the Silence, The, 428 

Song of the South, A, 263 

SONGS oF ITALy, 311 

SONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS, AT3 


SONGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN (Olive 


Leaves), 209 
SONGS OF THE SIERRAS, 1871, 59 
SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS, 177 
Summer Frosts, 160 
Summer Moons at Mount Vernon, 360 
Sun Lay Molten in the Sea, The, gor 
Sunrise in Venice, 332 


Tale of the Tall Alcalde, The, 88 
That Faithful Wife of Idaho, 462 
That Gentle Man from Boston, 456 
That Ussian of Usland, 466 

The Fourth in Hawaiian Waters, 447 
““The Fourth” in Oregon, 387 
Thomas of Tigre, 155 

Those Perilous Spanish Eyes, 438 
To Andrew Carnegie, 441 

Toil of God, The, 403 

To Juanita, 365 

To Maud, 61 

Tomorrow, 428 

To Rachel in Russia, 309 

To Rest at Last, 175 

To Russia, 309 

To Save a Soul, 420 \ 

To the Bards of S. F. Bay, 50 

To the Pioneers, 379 

Trees, The, 367 

True Greatness, 422 

Truly Brave, The, 404 

Turkey Hunt in Texas, A, 464 
Twilight at the Hights, 383 

Two Wise Old Men of Omar’s Land, 469 


ULTIMATE WEstT, THE, 363 

Ultime, 55 

Under the Oaks, 54 

Under the Olive Trees, 400 

Under the Syrian Stars, 393 
Usland, 466 


Vale, 55 

Vale! America, 333 
Vaquero, 172 

Venice, 341 

Voice of the Dove, The, 405 
Voice of Toil, The, 397 


Index of Titles 587 


Walker in Nicaragua, 61 Why, Know You Not Soul Speaks to Soul, 
Washington by the Delaware, 360 405 
Welcome to the Great American Ocean, William Brown of Oregon, 458 

468 | With Love to You and Yours, 540 
Westminster Abbey, 410 World Is a Better World, The, 419 
What If We All Lay Dead Below, 404 
When Little Sister Came, 43 Yosemite, 155 
Where Rolls the Oregon, 170 
Who Shall Say? 157 Zanara, 48 


~ 


in 


URBANA 


WNIT 


3 0112 060015218 


UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 


lh 


—_—_—$—$_ = 
——————— 
SS— 
— 
—SSS=_== 
—SSS———— 
_eeEee 
——_—_—__—___— 
—_———— 
SSeS 
——— 


